Something More
by Dark3Star
Summary: John Watson knows the world to be a good place to live in, with decent people in it. Sherlock Holmes is a brooding, temperamental beast of a man, who sees the world for the cold, cruel place that it is. Desperate to help his alcoholic sister, John is willing to do anything, even begin a tumultuous partnership with Sherlock. Both find what neither expected.
1. Broken

**Thank you for stopping by to read my story. For those who have been waiting, my deepest apologies for the long delay. I announced this story at the end of my last big work, "This Doesn't Feel Like Falling" which was longer ago than I like to think about. Anyway, I say that this story is based off of my favorite story, and many of you guessed right. This is my Johnlock take on Beauty and the Beast. I hope you enjoy:**

* * *

 **Something More**

Prologue: Broken

Sherlock's fingers danced across the black and white keys of the piano and Beethoven's 5th symphony rang out crisp and clear in the morning air. The piano was in tune, the pedals worked, and it shined with a fresh polish. It wasn't a grand piano, just an upright, but the accomplishment made him glow with pride all the same. Mummy had helped him gain access to the supplies and tools he needed to build it. It was meant to be a present to his brother for his eighteenth birthday.

Mummy had been worried about Sherlock hurting himself when he was cutting the wood and installing the wire. Still, after almost ten years of raising her overly precocious offspring, she knew it was better to supervise instead of deny the majority of his projects. Denial only ever resulted in bigger explosions and less access to proper safety equipment.

Mycroft had been incredibly busy lately, getting ready to go to university. Sherlock understood that it would be impractical for his brother to take the piano with him, but it would be ready for him when he chose to visit. Secretly, Sherlock hoped the piano would encourage his brother to visit more often. Music was one of the only things that made his brother smile anymore…

Sherlock looked up when he heard his brother's measured pace coming down the hall and grinned in anticipation. He scrambled off the bench, which he had built to accompany the piano, and waited anxiously for his brother to appear.

Mycroft strode through the doorway with his usual air of imposing authority. He, like Sherlock, was unusually tall, which aided his powers of intimidation. Lately, however, he'd begun wearing immaculately tailored suits which made it look like he could rule the world. If he wanted to, Sherlock was sure that Mycroft _could_ rule the world, but he would always be Sherlock's brother.

The elder Holmes brother strode distractedly about the room while Sherlock's eyes tracked him. He was frowning down at a stack of papers in his hands and muttering to himself. Sherlock decided he must have just come back from fetching the mail. Mycroft had been waiting for something important in the post for several weeks now; he was expecting an acceptance letter from one of the finest business and law programs in the country.

Sherlock fidgeted impatiently, knotting his fingers together behind his back while he waited for his brother to look up and notice his present.

Mycroft stopped suddenly, turned pale, and it was Sherlock's turn to frown. "Mycroft?" he asked softly, taking a step towards his older brother. Mycroft spun suddenly around, causing Sherlock to flinch back. He was squeezing the paper in his hand so tightly it was crumpled, and his face looked murderous. Sherlock took a hesitant step forward and repeated his brother's name.

Mycroft, who didn't seem to hear or see him, started muttering furiously to himself, his breath coming in pants. "This is unacceptable! My marks and recommendations are _perfect_." He hissed softly in righteous indignation before declaring, to no one in particular, "I will _fix_ this!"

"Did you not get in?" Sherlock asked, concern and sympathy etched on his classic features.

Mycroft glared at him for a moment, seeing him for the first time and spat, "Not _yet_."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Sherlock asked, stepping close to his brother.

Mycroft's scowl deepened. "I don't have time for your stupid games today, Sherlock. This is important!"

"I'm not talking about games, Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted back, the hurt obvious in his voice. "I can do all sorts of things I'm not supposed to be able to do! I have for years, you know that!"

"This has a lot more at stake than deductions, Sherlock!"

"And I can do a lot more than just observe, Mycroft!" Sherlock retaliated, and then gestured violently at the gift he had worked so hard on. "I built this whole bloody piano on my own! For _you_ I might add; you ungrateful git!"

Mycroft lifted his hands to the sides of his head, and closed his eyes, breathing heavily through his nose. "I don't have time for this Sherlock," he was attempting to speak evenly, but his voice shook with barely contained fury. "I have to _fix this_!" He gestured violently with the papers in his hand. "Do not even _think_ of disturbing me!" The elder Holmes rounded on his heel and strode for the door.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock cried, rushing after him. "Really I can hel—" Sherlock was thrust violently backwards. He tumbled on the floor and cracked his head against the side of the coffee table. He winced and pressed a hand to the rapidly swelling bump as Mycroft towered over him.

"Leave me _**alone**_ , Sherlock!" he roared. "Sod you, and sod this stupid piano, too!" As he turned, Mycroft grasped the edge of the piano in one hand, and wrenched his arm away from the wall. Like Sherlock, he was strong, and the movement caused the upright piano to topple to the floor, crushing the bench beneath it. A jarring cord echoed through the house as Mycroft stormed from the living room.

Sherlock stared aghast at the wrecked instrument before him. The frame was slightly crumpled, one leg was completely severed, a handful of lose keys were scattered on the floor around it, and, given the fading echoes of its dissonant notes, several of its wires had snapped. The bench which had accompanied it lay fractured beneath and around it. He did not register the rushing feet until his mother's hands were one him.

"Sherlock!" She gasped, cupping his face and bringing his eyes up to meet her own. They were blue, like his, but of a warmer shade. "Are you injured?"

Sherlock pulled his hand from his head and saw a splash of red. "Just a laceration, I think," he said quietly.

His mother's expression darkened. She was almost never angry, but when she was, she was more fearsome than anyone Sherlock had ever seen, Mycroft included. "Stay here, sweetheart," she said with deceptive softness. "I'm going to fetch the first aid kit." Standing, she rounded on her heel and stormed up the stairs. " **MYCROFT CHARLAMANE HOLMES! COME HERE THIS INSTANT!** " No one argued with Mummy Holmes when she was in this sort of mood. No one.

Sherlock's eyes slid over to the wreck of a piano. They burned and itched, but he did not cry. Fine. If this was the way things were going to be…fine. He stood, flinching against the pounding pressure in his skull. It hurt, but he was not concussed. He might need stitches…but he could do that himself. Pressing his hand to his head to staunch the bleeding, Sherlock shuffled out of the room.


	2. A Chemical Defect

**Thank you to everyone who has read, favorite, and/or followed this story. Your support is much appreciated. ^_^**

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Chapter One: A Chemical Defect.

The violins swelled with the notes of a hesitation waltz. The musicians had slowed the tempo so the dancers were moving at a walking pace. It was a deliberately calculated move, because none of the Gala's participants were _actually_ there to dance. This was not a celebration, it was politics in motion.

Sherlock detested these kinds of gatherings and all the false niceties associated with them. He had only attended so that he could close his latest case. The case, and the invitation to this Gala, had both come to him through Mycroft. Sherlock was invited to all of Mycroft's high handed soirees, but he never attended. He didn't take cases from his brother either, but this one was at least an eight, and he hadn't worked a case above a four in two months. Also, Mycroft may have not so subtly threatened something about exile if Sherlock didn't capitulate 'just this once.'

A very important and _secret_ trade agreement had gone missing from the master vaults of the prime minister. At first Mycroft had been _sure_ he would be dealing with an international incident. When, inexplicably, there hadn't been one, he'd called on Sherlock. Because Sherlock hadn't returned his calls in over two decades, any visits they had were the result of kidnapping or, more commonly, breaking and entering.

Regardless, Sherlock was here now, and moments away from making his final move. Arthur Jones, one of the two main candidates for the next Prime Minister, was about to be arrested for treason.

The smartest thing for any aspiring criminal to do would be to sell the trade agreement to the highest bidder on the black market, where it could then be used for blackmail. The fact that nothing of the sort appeared to have happened, was exactly what had allowed Sherlock to deduce the document's location.

Due to a burst water pipe, the venue for this very Gala was only recently moved to the same building the document had been stolen from. Decoration and planning had forced large sections of the building to be shut down, and the rest of the building to be overrun with extra staff who were working hard to ensure the Gala was not delayed. These fevered preparations had begun the same morning the trade agreement had been reported missing.

Security guards, clerks, and several truly honest persons had been immediately, and pointlessly, fired, with no leads to show for it. Sherlock would have been able to tell the Yard that for nothing. Stealing such a dangerous document was a move so ballsy that only a delusional low-ranking employee, or someone of significant political power, who was confident in their ability to get away with it, would even attempt it. The seamlessness with which the documents had disappeared, and the fresh graphite found on the lock to the vault had given it all away.

During his recent campaign push, Arthur had been hanging all over the current prime minister, squeezing every possible pointless photo and public visit out of their friendship. He was running under the over-used campaign promise that he was a man of the people who would sort out the corruption in the system. The lock to the documents vault had not been tampered with, aside from fresh graphite being found inside. The locks were regularly maintained and everyone, except Sherlock and Mycroft, suspected the fresh graphite was part of this maintenance, meant to help keep the lock lubricated. Sherlock suspected that Arthur had made an impression of the prime minister's key during one of their endless public appearances or private dinners, and used the impression to create a copy. The copy might be slightly rough, and so he had applied graphite to the lock to help things along.

Once he'd obtained to documents he'd stored them in his office; every political office held a secret compartment or two these days. His plan had no doubt been to sell the trade agreement secretly. This would not only make him money, but provide excellent discussion material for his campaign to end corruption in the government.

He hadn't counted on the burst pipe, though. With so much activity and people rushing into the building just after he's secured the trade agreement, it hadn't been safe to remove it from his office. Tonight, however, the Gala would stop being a deterrent, instead working in favor of Mr. Jones. After he had made his speeches, and anything else he intended to accomplish, he could sneak back to his office and slip quietly outside without anyone being the wiser. All Sherlock had to do now was catch him in the act.

It didn't matter to Sherlock that he was ridding the world, or at least the local government of a greedy, over-reaching rat of a man. There would be others to replace him. The only things that really mattered were the facts, the game, and who came out on top. Sherlock had devoted his entire adult life to the game, and his invented craft as a consulting detective; there wasn't a person alive who could beat him.

Mycroft's intellect and observation rivaled his own, but the idiot had devoted himself to politics, which meant that, even though he had known the truth before coming to Sherlock, he'd needed his little brother to do his dirty work for him.

A cruel smirk twisted on Sherlock's lips. He could see his brother, milling with the movers and shakers of the world, careful to always stay on the sidelines. He may be a consulting detective, but Mycroft was a consulting politician. He'd been the real power behind the British Government for... seven years now…or was it eight? He never made a point of keeping useless facts in his brain. It didn't matter. His quarry was in sight, and all he needed to do was wait…

A delicately gloved hand slid smoothly along his own, connecting him at the elbow to one Molly Hooper. Sherlock suppressed a sigh of irritation. The young morgue assistant worked at St. Bart's hospital. She'd had an appalling crush on him for at least three years. If she hadn't given him unrestricted access to the laboratories and, occasionally, the bodies, he never would have spoken with her. As was, it behooved him to encourage her idiotic flirtation. She was so infatuated it hardly required any effort on his part. A casual smile here, a brush of fingers along the back of her hand there, and she became a very pliant tool. Lately however…

"May I steal a dance, Mr. Holmes?" She asked, her voice uncharacteristically low. She was trying for sultry, but she'd only made herself sound like a victim of laryngitis.

"What are you doing here, Molly?" he asked dryly, not bothering to turn his eyes on her.

She pressed her free hand to her chest and gasped in badly feigned shock. "So you _do_ remember my name."

"This is a highly secured function; guests are allowed by invitation only," Sherlock drawled impatiently, tracking Arthur's progress as he moved through the room. The would-be politician was speaking with all the right people and arranging all the right opportunities to be photographed. He had been 'working the room' for some time, but it would still be ten minutes before he began slinking back towards his office.

"I was invited," Molly pouted. "I gave Charles Braxton's secretary first aid when she feinted in the morgue. She'd come to ask about the Langton murders, and I was in the middle of an autopsy. It's not an easy thing to charge into a room and see a corpse flayed open like that. It was only a bump on the head, she didn't even have a concussion, but Mr. Braxton was grateful for my help." She turned her hard, dark brown gaze at him. " _Some_ people do have a heart, it seems."

Sherlock snorted with derisive, humorless laughter. "Some people have a cock and a healthy sex drive, you mean. Even _you_ must have observed that he is sleeping with her." Sherlock finally turned his eyes towards Molly, his stare lingering as it moved up her body. "I rather think he would like to add you to his conquests."

Molly's eyes narrowed. "Maybe I should take him up on it then. That's how things work in your world, isn't it? Favors bought and paid for without any consideration for real emotional connection."

Sherlock held her gaze, but only just. He looked _bored_. "That's how the world _works_ , Ms. Hooper. If I am the first person to acquaint you with that fact, then your education has been quite overdue…" Her nails dug into the fabric of his suit when he turned away again, following Arthur's movements once more.

"Dance one dance with me, and I will never bother you again."

The timber of her voice was an odd mixture of sorrow, anger, and resolution. Sherlock turned his full attention on her for the first time that evening. He could see the hurt and righteous indignation that announced she'd finally realized that she would never receive his affections—he had none to give. What he did not see, was deception. She truly meant to remove herself from his life after tonight. She meant to leave St. Barts and England altogether. She was going to practice medicine in some tropical location… This would mean he would need to tediously ingratiate himself with Bart's next morgue assistant…but it also meant he would be free from Molly's cloying emotions, and any tedium they might cause. "Agreed."

Sherlock lead her onto the dance floor, and they began to move. He was, of course, classically trained in ballroom dancing. Being a foolhardy romantic, Ms. Hooper had apparently taken the time to educate herself. She moved confidently, and took direction well. That, at least, was refreshing.

"For a long time, I pitied you," she began, quietly enough so that only he could hear. "A world without love is hardly worth living in."

"Love is a fairytale, Ms. Hooper," Sherlock retaliated, never breaking eye contact. The reality is little more than a chemical defect, which puts one at a great disadvantage."

"You don't put much stock in happiness, do you?" He declined to dignify her question with an answer. Unfortunately, she did not seem in the least bit put off. "What a great misfortune it would be to you, Mr. Holmes, if you found yourself in dire need of the very emotional attachments you so abhor."

Sherlock fought the urge to grind his teeth. She'd been reading Jane Austin novels again. "No one has ever died from a lack of _love_ , Ms. Hooper." He spat the word contemptuously, counting the seconds until his obligatory dance was concluded.

"You're a man of science, Mr. Holmes. Have you completely dismissed the research on non-organic failure to thrive? Even if you have, there are now other ways to die from a broken heart."

"If you're speaking of a physically broken and/or ruptured heart, then I must agree. There are 172 ways to die of a broken heart." He dipper her low as the song ended; she arched her head back and smiled.

"I am speaking of a new _chemical_ way to die of a broken heart," she murmured as he pulled her back to her feet. "I've just poisoned you, Mr. Holmes."

She brought one of her gloved hands before his face. In it, she held an empty syringe which held the smallest trace of blood on the tip. In a swift movement, she capped the needle and leaned forward to slide the syringe into his jacket pocket. Her breath brushed his ear as she spoke. "The only antidote that will save you, are the very chemicals your own body releases when you are in love."

Sherlock arched a condescending eyebrow, not in the least worried. "Even if you could craft a poison as delicate and complex as that—which is clearly _not_ the case, as I am still very much alive, chemical reactions are easily synthesized."

Molly's self-satisfied smile never left her face. "It's a slow acting poison, Mr. Holmes. It will take you two years to die; I want you to see your own destruction coming, without being able to stop it. No synthesized chemicals will work, only the natural ones will. You'll need a sustained 'dose' of love. Those very chemicals you scorn start slowly, build, and then settle into a varying stability as a relationship develops. The subtleties are …complex." She leaned forward then, and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. "Good luck, Mr. Holmes."

She pulled back and slipped away from him. He stood alone on the dance floor, stationary in a sea of moving couples, and watched her leave the building.


	3. Wrong

**Trigger Warning: Mentions of withdrawal from alcohol and depressed thoughts. Please be safe.**

 **Many thanks to everyone who followed and/or favorite this story. Your support means a lot to me. ^_^**

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Chapter Two: Wrong

Harriet's back arched violently, her muscles contracting to force bile and mucus from her empty stomach. John feared she would suffer a spinal injury. She'd already broken a rib…she was _so_ thin…

"Harry, I'm calling an ambulance," he insisted.

His sister's arm flailed behind her in a feeble attempt to dissuade him, or maybe the delirium tremens was getting worse… She needed a medically managed detox, _now_ , before she had a seizure. John made the call with the brisk efficiency that had served him well in the service. Harriet's spasming gentled at last, and she was able to pull back from the toilet, gasping for breath. "They'll be here soon," John soothed, using his cane and the wall to slide into a sitting position next to her.

"I'm—not—going," she panted, her head lolling against the tiled wall in exhaustion.

"You are, if I have to club you over the head and drag you there myself," John insisted. While adamant, his tone did not have the same bite as his words. He wanted to see his sister well again, and he would do whatever was necessary towards that end. He'd been watching her self-detox for three days now, trying to convince her to go to the hospital. He was _done_ asking.

Harriet had begun to sob weakly. "This isn't going to get any better, is it?"

"It will," John assured her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "It can get better forever if you go into residential treatment after detox, start working a program."

She drew her knees up to her chest and sunk her head down to rest against them. "I'm all alone," she moaned.

"No, Harry, you're not," John corrected sternly. "You've got me; I'll be there for you every step of the way."

His sister jerked away from him, upsetting her balance and toppled onto her side. "You shouldn't be!" she wailed. "All I've ever done is hurt you. And you _can't_ replace dad, no matter what you do! It's all a mess… Look at what we _do_ to each other, Johnny!" She had laid her head sideways on her arms and was sobbing in earnest now. Her hair hung limp and wet with perspiration around her face. "It's _**not**_ worth it!"

"Yes, yes it is," John stated emphatically. "I would do _anything_ to see you get better, Harry." She continued to cry quietly, no longer protesting, and holding his hand in a crushing grip while they waited for the ambulance.

* * *

John leaned back against the park bench and sighed. His sister was getting out of detox in three days, and he still hadn't found a residential treatment center she'd be willing to go to. He hated that hopeless, empty look in her eyes…

" _Look at what we_ _ **do**_ _to each other, Johnny!"_

He'd only heard those words a few nights ago, and they already haunted him more than some of his memories from the war. He was pretty sure she'd meant what she and he did to each other, how they fought, and things they said… They had never had the best of relationships, and it had only gone downhill when their parents died. John was just starting as a doctor at the time, struggling with financial and career pressures, and Harry was a few years older, just married to Clare. They were both adults, but the loss was no less crippling… _That_ was when Harry had really gone off the deep end. Her ex-wife wasn't even speaking to her anymore. Without John's efforts she would be truly _alone_ …

" _Look at what we_ _ **do**_ _to each other, Johnny!"_

What really frightened John, was the idea that Harry had meant humanity as a whole. She'd struggled with depression for a long time, and they'd both seen the rough side of life. It galled him that she might be losing hope when, after _everything_ , he still loved her so much. Love wasn't something one just walked away from…

But how, _how_ was he going to get his sister to agree to treatment? She kept saying she was sick to death of the entire United Kingdom. It was true enough that a change of scene might do her some powerful good, but _how_ would they ever afford it? John's pension barely kept the two of them in the shabbiest, smallest flat he'd ever seen.

He wrung his hands together over the cane he now needed to steady his gait. He'd been invalided home from the service after taking a bullet to the shoulder… He still couldn't quite figure how his leg was mixed up in that injury, but nerves and infection were tricky things sometimes.

"Watson?!"

A voice he vaguely remembered broke his sullen reverie, and he looked up. He squinted for a moment at the gentleman rapidly approaching him, then broke into a grin and pushed against his cane to stand. "Stamford! How are you?"

The old friends embraced for a moment, then quickly sat beside each other on the bench which John had previously occupied alone. "I'm doing a mite better that you it seems," Mike observed, glancing sympathetically at John's cane.

John grimaced and nodded. "That's what I get for going to war, I suppose."

"Are you back in the medical field then?" Mike asked.

"I've been meaning to get back to work at a surgery, or something, but Harry has been too ill to be left alone."

Mike nodded in understanding. That was one thing that John had always liked about him when they were in medical school together, Mike never belabored a point. He was immensely practical. "What about you?" John ventured, "What have you been up to?"

"I recently left a position at a surgery, in order to start my own practice," he confided with a sly grin.

"Mike, that's fantastic news! Congratulations!" John enthused, glad to focus on _any_ good news, even if it was not his own. "You've wanted your own practice since we were back in med school together!"

Mike nodded. "I finally decided to make a go of it." There was a brief pause before he added, "You know, they might still be looking for someone. I could put in a good word, if you want."

John smiled gratefully. "Thanks, Mike, but I've still got to get Harry situated before I can seriously consider taking up a position. She's not interested in any treatment centers around here, and as is we're going to have to move out of London; my pension only goes so far."

Mike, "hmmed" thoughtfully, frowning into the distance. "Well," he said at length, "I do know of a way to possibly gain as much as five thousand pounds at once, with no financial risk to yourself, but…"

John also began to frown. Mike couldn't be talking of gambling if there was no financial risk, but the other implications his mind supplied were… unsettling. He wouldn't sell drugs, or harm anyone else, but Mike already knew that… John paled at the idea of selling his body. That amount of money implied high demands for such an exchange… It would be highly risky even if he insisted on condoms and other safety measures. His hands tightened on his cane at the realization that he probably would go through with such a proposition, however distasteful he found it, for Harry's sake…

"It's probably not worth mentioning," Mike concluded, "You and your sister have been through enough recently."

John blew out a short, sharp breath, and said, "Just tell me, Mike. I can make my own decisions about what I will and won't do."

Mike frowned again, but nodded. "There's this fellow I know. I met him when the Yard was investigating the murder of one of my patients. He works with the Yard, well, shows them up would be more accurate. They were still getting a case profile together when he'd pegged her brother for her murder. Damned if the forensic evidence didn't point right to him too, once the Yard had the lab results back."

"And what about this man can help me?" John asked, confused, and more than a little apprehensive.

"Well, he was talking to some officers of the Yard, arguing is more like it, when he stepped back and declares that he can tell you the whole truth about any person, just by looking at him, and he would offer five thousand pounds to anyone who could prove him wrong." Mike smiled ruefully. "A few officers took him up on it right there and, damn, but he was ruthless. He spat out all sorts of private information about them, things their co-workers had no right knowing. The Detective Inspector on-scene threatened to arrest him after he said the Detective Inspector's wife was cheating on him."

John's eyebrows rose to his hairline. "And you think _I'd_ be able to fool him?"

"You've always been friendly, John, but you're not an easy man to get to know," Mike countered. He continued confidently, "And even then, you're not what most people would expect. For example, being a doctor and a solider itself is sort of a contradiction. Of all the people I know, I think you've got as good a chance as someone can have against him."

John considered this for a moment. It was no less distasteful than what he had been imagining, he _was_ a private individual… Still, there was much less physical risk to himself. Setting his mouth in a determined line, he turned to face his friend and asked, "What's his name?"

* * *

Sherlock furiously wiped the sweat from his brown as he leaned over the microscope.

It was starting.

Although nine months of continuous testing had illuminated the unbelievable proof of Ms. Hooper's assertions, he had never actually expected to start feeling truly _ill_. The whole thing was becoming unbearably _tedious_.

Molly's exit had been heavy handed and overly dramatic. In truth, he'd barely given it a second thought until one week later. He'd finished thoroughly embarrassing and ruining the career of Mr. Arthur Jones, and no interesting cases had immediately followed. He'd been approximately three seconds from shooting the walls to end his boredom, when he'd discovered the used syringe in his jacket pocket. He'd twirled it between his fingers for a few moments, collecting small bits of data from the syringe before him and his memory of the night.

The syringe had definitely had something _in_ it. It was a bit late to check his own body for an exact entry point, but it might spare him a few mind-numbing hours if he analyzed this syringe's contents. He doubted they would be more than saline, but as there was no current case, and no sign of any case coming his way in the near future, it was the only stimuli at hand.

He had been mildly surprised to find that the syringe had _not_ contained saline. It did not have any stable components that resembled any substance of abuse, despite his repeated tests for trace amounts of hallucinogens. On a whim, and because he could, Sherlock tested his sample against all the classical poisons. It did not resemble Cyanide, Strychnine, Hemlock, Arsenic, Mercury, Oleander, Ricin, or any other toxic substance Sherlock could think to test against. All these negative results, did make one thing irrevocably clear: Whatever the syringe had contained was incredibly complex.

Testing this unknown substance became Sherlock's go-to experiment for the next several months. With some persistence, he was able to isolate key components who's effects could, in theory, be devastating. It was interesting, but not terribly concerning. Sherlock knew no instance of a single case of poisoning which took so long to act, not without repeated exposure. Even then, any symptoms he developed would be telling. If poisons were laced into what little he did eat or drink, he would know almost instantly, and administer a counteragent.

More and more of his time gave way to exploring the mysterious fluid in the syringe. Slowly...too slowly, the truth presented itself. The syringe _had_ contained a poison every iota as complex and deadly as Ms. Hooper had implied. The only thing that did not surprise him about this string of experiments, was his final test; a confirmation that he _was_ infected. This was more than he had ever expected from the meek, shy, Molly Hooper. For the first time in many, many years he felt... afraid.

Transport could be regulated and controlled, but only to a point. This was why he ate and slept every few days, despite the tedium. With these facts before him he could no longer ignore the data from his transport. It had been subtle at first, just a whisper of the poisons encroaching hold. Increased fatigue, joint stiffness, muscle cramps, intensifying headaches; the list of symptoms only grew and intensified with time. Now, there was no denying his situation.

He was dying.

Immediately he had tried to simulate the chemicals which Ms. Hooper had indicated would relive his suffering...to no noticeable effect. He had tried prolonged doses and experimented with time release formulas until the Detective Inspector he solved cases for had come in person to assure himself that Sherlock was still alive. The dinner which this stubborn individual had then forced on him had cost valuable time...time he did not have.

The chemical formula of love _was_ simple, but simulating how it grew and matured was not. If he could do it at all, it would cost him more time than he had. It was a year after he was first injected when he returned to solving cases with renewed gusto. By that time he had only one year left, and he had to make it count. He did not expect to be greatly remembered for the work that he had done; he just wanted the satisfaction of winning the game.

Sherlock had been back to solving cases for three months now, and he was beginning to crystallize on an idea that had only been fleeting before his poisoning. There was a pattern to his work that was finally becoming clear to him. There was something, _someone_ , lurking in the center of the criminal underworld. He had his finger on the pulse and flow of London, and much of the world beyond it . The world's only consulting detective sole remaining purpose in life was to dethrone his unknown rival from their position of power.

There were roughly nine months left now, for him to solve the biggest case of his career, but they would be enough. Sherlock would make them be enough.

The door to the lab opened with a jerk, and two sets of footsteps hurried inside. Sherlock recognized the lumbering gate of Mike Stamford instantly, and knew that they had to be coming for him. Ever since the soft-hearted fool had overheard is ill-timed words to that idiot, Anderson, he had developed the nasty habit of bringing him people in desperate need of money. The sob-stories were grating and annoying, especially now that he didn't have time for them.

"Not today, Mike," he snapped, shifting his gaze from the microscope to a pad of paper at his elbow as he made several notations.

"But, Sherlock-"

Sherlock slammed his pen flat against the table with enough force to shake the beakers at his elbow, silencing the unwelcome intrusion. "I said _**no**_. Take your charity cases somewhere, _anywhere_ but here!" The tears would come now, and the sniveling. _Boring._ Sherlock brought his eyes back to the microscope without once having looked at the intruders.

The room was silent. Silent for long enough that Sherlock concluded Mike and the man he'd brought with him would leave _without_ vexing him further. And then the other man spoke.

"Excellent. Mike, let's go round to the Yard next. I told you that bet you witnessed was nothing but _hot air_ ; I bet it would make that Detective Inspector's _day_ to hear that this fellow is too incompetent to back up his claims. Wouldn't surprise me if they had an office pool on when it would all fall to pieces. They might even give us something for being the ones to bring them the news."

This new, calm, _collected_ voice, and everything it said was maddening. Whirling from his microscope, Sherlock quickly drew himself to his full height. Before him stood a resolute, square shouldered man with sandy blond hair and limpid blue eyes. He was three inches shorter than average, his head only coming up to Sherlock's chin. "You're a proper beggar, then? You'll take anything you can get?"

John's jaw clenched and he nodded. " _Whatever_ it takes."

The corner of Sherlock's cupid's bow lips quirked upwards in something that was part smirk and part sneer. He strode forward, and as John did not back away, or even flinch; they were inches apart in moments. "Then take this message back to the Yard with you. I don't have _time_ for every idiot in need of a few pounds to come crawling to my door. It's interfering with my _work_. Anyone foolish enough to persist will be dealt with _accordingly_.

John was unblinking in the face of Sherlock's threat. He actually leaned closer to his opposition, so that the breath of his next sentence disturbed some of Sherlock's errant curls. "Go ahead then; _deduce_ me."

Sherlock's response was quick and ruthless. "You served in Her Majesty's service, Afghanistan most likely, until you were invalided home. Despite the fact that you were shot in the left _shoulder_ you've insisted in developing a psychosomatic limp. You only came here as a last chance effort to get your brother into rehab, for the seventh time, I might add. You don't have the money to pay for it; you don't really even have enough to support yourself. Given the high probability of failure, even _if_ you are able to place your brother in rehab, you are wasting your time. The exit is back that way, please stop wasting my time as well; it's much more valuable."

Sherlock turned and made to stride back to his microscope when a calm, clear voice cut through the silence that had settled over the lab.

"Wrong."

Sherlock stopped and stiffened. "Plead the likelihood of your brother's recovery to someone who _cares_ ," he snarled, without bothering to turn around. He'd just leaned forward to continue his progression towards his microscope, and the notes beside it, when the voice came again.

"My _sister_ has as good a chance at recovery as anyone else."

Sherlock sighed and let out a long, slow breath. _Sister_. Of course. He was an idiot. He turned in place, reaching into his jacket pocket for a pen and his checkbook. "I suppose you would like this made out to yourself, instead of Harriet?"

John nodded, not bothering to ask how this total stranger knew his sister's name.

Sherlock scribbled the check quickly, finished with a flourish, and made to hand it over to John. John reached for it, mildly surprised to find it was made out to _Mr. Watson_. As he grasped it, however, Sherlock's grip tightened, preventing John from taking it out of his hand. John looked up and was instantly met by the chilling glare of Sherlock's light blue eyes. Sherlock's baritone voice rumbled, deep and threatening. "This won't be enough to send her where she might get the best help. And she's still going to fail anyway. If you can't let her go, you're going to spend the next year watching her _die_."

John's mouth pinched tight in anger, as he was finally able to pry the check from Sherlock's long fingers. He was about to storm off, but Sherlock beat him to it. The taller man threw his Belstaff coat over his shoulders, picked up his note pad, and stalked towards the exit like a great jungle cat. He paused at the door and leaned back, throwing Mike an angry smile. " _Don't_ bring any more people here looking for me. My work is too important for this nonsense, and as such I will be operating any necessary lab equipment from my home." He winked then as if his words had been friendly instead of laced with venom, then he was gone.

John stared after him, appalled at the arrogance and contempt with which he and his sister's case had been treated. ...Still... He glanced down at the check in his hands. He had gotten what he came for, enough to get his sister some help. For that help, he'd have been willing to do something a great deal more distasteful than being viciously insulted by a man he would never see again.

His sister would be fine. Just fine.


	4. Good Intentions

**A big thank you to Venus Smurf for your review! I love to hear back from readers. Thank you also to everyone who followed and favorited this story, your support is much appreciated. ^_^**

* * *

Chapter Three: Good Intentions

"I saw that," John smirked, glancing at his sister over the morning paper.

Harriet turned to scowl at him. "You didn't see anything," she insisted.

"Yes I did; you smiled." Setting the paper down on the table, John went to stand behind her, looking at the screen of his laptop over her shoulder. "Did you find a good one?"

"Johnny!" his sister whined, pushing ineffectually at his shoulder. "Back off, this is my job!"

"I just want to see what made you smile," John coaxed, gesturing for her to point it out. Harry had returned from hospital yesterday, and John had been able to share the good news. She had the pick of any treatment center she wanted to go to.

Harry had groused at him and curled up into a miserable ball on her bed, but John had persisted in his good cheer. He'd let her sleep three-quarters of the day away, and made her chicken soup for dinner. She had insisted, petulantly, that she was not a child, but she'd eaten everything he'd portioned out for her. John had again repeated that Harry was free to research any residential addiction treatment center that she wanted, and if she found one she liked, he would pay for everything.

It had taken every shred of John's self-control not to hover over her shoulder when she'd lazily booted up his laptop that morning. Instead, he'd practiced his breathing, and watched her surreptitiously over the edge of his morning paper. He'd tried to read the articles, he really had, but he was more focused on trying to read his sister in the same way that arse had read him the other day.

As infuriating as the experience had been, John had to admit that he was impressed... Forcing his attention back to the present, John scanned the computer screen in front of him. "Was it the gardens?"

"No!" Harry insisted, coloring like a child caught in a lie.

John's grin was unrelenting. "The gardens, huh?" he mused, skimming the description of the expansive grounds residents of the Edelweiss Recovery Center could cultivate, if they so chose. "Sounds like fun to me. I remember I could hardly get you out of Mum's gardens, when we were younger."

Harry smiled for a moment, then her face fell and she looked into her lap.

"Hey," John murmured, kneeling beside her and turning the computer chair to face him, and taking his sister's hands in his. "What's the matter?" Harry shook her head and tried to evade the gaze of her brother, but he was persistent. "Tell me, Harry."

Harry pressed her lips tightly together and stared morosely at their joined hands. When she spoke, at last, it was in a quiet whisper, "I don't deserve flowers, Johnny."

John reached forward and grasped her chin firmly between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to meet his penetrating gaze. "Yes you do, Harry. The mistakes you've made can't erase the person that you are. You are an amazing, caring, talented woman, who happens to be sick. Sick is _not_ irredeemable, Harry. I will _never_ stop believing that you can get better. I would do _anything_ to help support you in that."

Harry blinked slow, hot tears from her eyes as she raised her hands to cradle her brother's face. Shaking her head, she muttered, "God knows what I ever did to deserve you."

John leaned up and pulled her into a hug. "Being yourself is enough, Harry. It _always_ will be." She sniffled into his shoulder for a few long moments while John rubbed his hands up and down her back.

At length she seemed to steady herself and leaned back to gather some tissues from the box on the desk. John remained kneeling beside her, swiveling the rolling chair back around to face his laptop. "Go on," he urged. "Show me what you like about this one."

Harriet looked at him dubiously for a moment before returning her gaze to the screen. She smiled despite herself. "They _do_ have lovely gardens, Johnny. Do you see all these roses?"

John nodded, humming in satisfaction. Roses had always been his sister's favorite flowers; the Osiria Rose in particular. They had white petals that flushed up to pink/red tips. From the looks of the pictures, this place had a lot of them. "It says you can tend up to three garden beds at one time, if you wanted."

Harry nodded, her excitement peeking through. "And look at the views of those mountains," she sighed. Her gaze lingered on a picture of the artfully rustic looking Recovery Center, with the alps soaring high above it. "It looks _safe_ there."

Her voice sounded wistful, and John gripped her shoulder meaningfully. Safety hadn't really featured in either of their lives in a long time... They both bore the physical and emotional scars of being reared by alcoholic parents.

John had found his calm in the chaos, somehow; content to surrender to what he could not control. It wasn't that he'd ever given up fighting for a better way, more that he found strength and order in what he could manipulate in the midst of chaos. Uncertainty did not mean he was powerless. Since adopting this mindset, he'd found that he spent less time fighting useless battles. This unexpected marriage of chaos and order inside his mind had, naturally, lead him to pursue the contraindicated position of an army doctor. War and peace. Life and death.

Harry, meanwhile, had stoically endured all that she could, while slowly shrinking away from everything that might have helped her. Unable to find stable footing in the tumult of her life, she had turned to the only thing that had hinted at safety: alcohol. She knew it was dangerous and she knew it was not normal, but walking on the razors edge had left her incapable of dealing with any demons she did not know intimately. Any hope, however promising, brought with it struggles she did not feel capable of handling.

John understood that. She understood that. Even so, understanding and change are not the same thing. His heart, for example, understood that there was still a chance for his sister, despite any logic his mind might provide to convince him otherwise. Harriet's fatal flaw mirrored his own. In her head she knew she was a worthwhile person with a lot to offer, but her heart had given up on those possibilities a long, long time ago. It was John's greatest hope that his sister's next treatment could reconcile both their minds and hearts.

"Then, you should go," John replied at last. Harriet looked up at him, disbelieving, but John persisted. "A safe place sounds like the perfect environment for recovery. I'll hold down the fort here as long as you need, Harry. You'll always have a home with me."

Harry looked doubtfully at the screen in front of her, desire and hesitation warring on her face. "But Johnny, the money..."

"I've got the money sorted, Harry, I've already told you."

Harry looked over her shoulder uncertainly, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. "I thought you said you only had five thousand pounds?"

John scanned the screen again, she'd shifted to a page that discussed the treatment fees. The Edelweiss Recovery Center required thirty thousand pounds for a six month stay. He smiled warmly at his sister and winked, even as his insides chilled. "That's just to get you on your way and started," he assured her. "I wanted you to be comfortable when you got there."

Harriet gaped breathlessly for a moment. "Really, John? You meant it?"

Although she had stopped calling him 'Johnny', her voice was even more that of a little girl. The wounded little girl who hadn't had the kind of love and support she'd desperately needed; the kind of parents who would do _anything_ to keep their child safe.

John leaned forward and kissed her softly on the forehead. "I promise," he whispered, and meant it with all his heart. He vowed to himself, as much as he vowed to his sister, that he would do what was necessary to secure her the treatment she needed, even if he had to make a deal with the devil.

* * *

John pounded furiously on the front door to 221 Baker Street. He'd gotten the address from an officer named Anderson who was only too happy to help in an endeavor that had the slightest chance of inconveniencing and/or irritating one Sherlock Holmes. His righteous indignation faded slightly, when a kindly looking elderly woman came to the door. "Can I help you?" she asked, smiling kindly at John, who now looked quite flustered.

"Um, I'm sorry, Ma'am. I was looking for Mr. Holmes."

She smiled knowingly. "Ah, of course, he's just up the stairs." She took John by the hand and guided him gently inside the building. "He rents flat B."

John looked apprehensively up the old wooden staircase for a long moment. Was this really a good idea? He knew the git had money, but _how_ was he going to convince him to help pay for Harry's treatment? A reassuring pat on his shoulder brought his attention back to the elderly landlady. "He'll take your case, love, not to worry."

Blond eyebrows crinkled together doubtfully. "How-"

"Because he always takes the interesting cases." She nudged his side gently and winked conspiratorially. "After all the years he's lived here, I've gotten quite an eye for them myself. You've got the most interesting case he's seen in weeks."

John looked up the stairs once more, than nodded to himself, solidifying his resolve. Glancing back, he smiled warmly at the landlady. "Thank you Ma'am."

She returned his smile jovially. "Call me Mrs. Hudson."

Remembering his manners, John nodded and shook her hand. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. My name is John Watson. I apologize for making such a ruckus at your door."

"It's fine, Mr. Watson. I'm used to much worse with that one handing around." She look up meaningfully, and John was utterly perplexed by the fond smile that graced her features. How could _anyone_ be fond of that _**monster**_? "Well," she continued, "I'd better let you get on your way; no one comes here looking that determined if it isn't serious."

"Yes, thank you again, Mrs. Hudson," John replied, slightly chagrined. Some mission of mercy he was on, if he'd started it off by disturbing the peace of a nice old landlady. He was pleased not to have frightened her. Then again, if Sherlock Holmes had been her lodger for years, he imagined she wasn't easily frightened. "I hope you have a good day," he murmured over his shoulder, starting up the stairs at last.

"You too, dear," she replied sweetly, humming to herself as she made her way back inside her first floor flat.

John was halfway up the steps when he heard the gunfire. His quick pace became a charge as he surged up towards trouble. He had _no idea_ how much trouble.

The door to 221 B was wide open. John braced himself on the doorframe to stop his forward motion, and gaped at the scene before him. Sherlock Holmes stood lazily erect, draped in his pajamas and robe. He was shooting the _**wall**_.

John shook his head and rushed forward once more, wrenching the gun from the taller man's hands. "What _**the hell**_ do you think you're doing?!" he yelled.

Sherlock cocked an arrogant eyebrow at him. "I'm not the one who just broke into this apartment."

Engaging the safety, John set the gun down on the coffee table with a murderous glare. "You're going to have the Yard here in a moment."

"Not for gunfire at this address," Sherlock sighed, draping himself over the sofa. "Not unless I call them, that is."

John fought the urge to make fists in his short blond hair. Of course. Of course this raving lunatic would have the police anesthetized to his outlandish behavior. John shivered at what else he must have put the officers through...

" _Why_ were you shooting at the wall?" John tried again, biting out every word.

Sherlock shrugged ineffectually. "Bored."

"Bored," John repeated dumbly.

Sherlock groaned miserably. "Everything is sooo _tedious_." He threw an arm across his face as though to shield himself from the monotony.

John's breath came out in short pants as he stared, exasperated at the overgrown child in front of him. "Bored," he repeated again, still sputtering. "You-you're _impossible_!"

Sherlock raised the pointer finger on the hand not covering his eyes and gestured meaningfully at the ceiling. "Improbable," he corrected.

John turned away in order to squash his sudden, and intense urge to ring the idiot's neck. He was heartless, irresponsible, and utterly without remorse. ...He really was a monster... The floorboards creaked as John leaned towards the exit. Except... he couldn't leave. Not without trying. This was his best, probably his only, chance. "You were right," he choked out, turning to face the lanky man once more.

"Naturally," Sherlock murmured blithely. Then his arm a few inches to glance sideways at John. "About what?"

"My sister," John ground out.

"hmm. I _did_ say it wasn't enough money. I never said I would give you any more," Sherlock drawled, the bored tone creeping back into his voice.

"I know you have it."

"Of course I have it, but that's not the point. The bet was for five thousand pounds. You have received you're payment; off with you." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively in the ex-army doctor's direction.

"There has to be something we can work out," John insisted.

Sherlock snorted derisively. "What do you have that I could _possibly_ want?"

John was silent for a while, but his breathing had quickened with his anger.

Sherlock observed him placidly. This was a dangerous man. He had hurt and _killed_ people. He was more than capable of doing so again... and yet... Sherlock let his head loll onto his shoulder so that he could take in the man before him more directly. If the ex-army doctor were any more livid, he'd risk giving himself a stroke, but he wouldn't actually hurt Sherlock... He probably wouldn't even break any of Sherlock's property. A man of integrity... Did such people really exist anymore? Apparently so. This was...interesting.

Sherlock sat up and tilted his head to one side, still observing John. "You really believe all this nonsense about second chances, and being nice to your fellow man, don't you?"

"Yes," John snapped, almost barked.

"That's quite foolish," Sherlock replied softly, a condescending smile playing on his features.

John ground his teeth. "Better a _fool_ then a heartless bastard like you!" This was pointless. This wasn't getting Harry the help that she needed. John spun on his heels and strode forward towards the exit. Before he had quite reached the threshold, Sherlock's voice cut through the air between them. It was soft, but filled with malice.

"In the end, you'll be bitter and disillusioned like the rest of the world's idiots."

John shook his head stubbornly, and kept moving. "Not going to happen."

"Prove it."

John halted in the doorway, his hands braced on the frame. He didn't need to turn around to know that Sherlock had risen from the sofa and was looming ominously close behind him. He turned anyway, wanting the physical evidence of this man's gall.

" _Excuse me_?"

Sherlock stepped closer then, invading John's space, just as he had done in the labs at St. Bart's. He cocked an eyebrow at the furious little man in front of him. "Prove it. Be my blogger."

John stepped back and shook his head in confusion, utterly lost. "You're what?"

"Blogger. I've had a crime page up for some time now as part of my work, but it hasn't brought half the interesting cases I thought it would."

John snorted derisively. "No wonder; who cares about the two hundred and forty types of tobacco ash."

"You've looked me up then?" Sherlock asked with an expression that was half smile, half sneer.

John narrowed his eyes defiantly. "Yes."

"You can't have paid very good attention to what you were reading. There are _two hundred and forty three_ types of tobacco ash."

John threw his hands into the air, exasperated. "That's not the _point_!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes dismissively. "Technically it is, because that is _exactly_ the kind of knowledge that helps me win cases."

"Right. This is utter rubbish, and you're a madman," John muttered, shaking his head at the situation, and himself. He had half turned when Sherlock's voice stopped him again.

"Be my blogger, Dr. Watson, and I'll make sure Harriet is in treatment by the end of the week."

John turned again, staring hard at the man in front of him. "Explain, exactly, and precisely, what you are offering."

Sherlock took a step back and straightened his spine. "I am a consulting detective, the only one in the world. I invented the position. When the Yard is out of their depth, which is always, they call me. I also have a fair number of private clients. The problem is, as I said, I don't have enough work. And when there isn't enough work, everything is so..."

"Boring?" John offered, a condescending look on his face.

"Exactly!" Sherlock gestured wildly, and for a moment John thought he would flop backwards onto the floor as though the world was too boring to be tolerated. "I don't _need_ an assistant, but your particular skill set might be useful in the field. Moreover, you could write about the cases you witness on a blog. Make it interesting. Whatever it is that attracts _common_ minds. This will drum up more cases. Of course I will have to sort through all the riff raff and their equally boring cases, but that is a necessary tedium, I'm afraid."

John considered this for a moment then said, "So you'll help Harry get into the Edelweiss Recovery Center, pay for all her treatment there, in exchange for me becoming your assistant?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Assistant, associate, something like that. Your sister will get the treatment you want her to have, I'll get more interesting cases, _and_ I'll be able to watch you come around to the ugly truth right in front of me."

The ugly truth? What did he- the realization his John like ice along his spine. Sherlock's earlier words echoed in his head. _"In the end, you'll be bitter and disillusioned like the rest of the world's idiots."_ This wasn't about drumming up new clients, this was about _proving a point_. Sherlock wanted him as, more a less, a servant, not so that his sister would benefit, but so that he could break John's spirit.

Sherlock stepped close to him once more, looming over him with sardonic self-satisfaction. "You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor. You've probably seen a lot of injuries and violent deaths. A bit of trouble too, I bet." A vicious grin tugged at the edges of Sherlock's lips. "Want to see some more?"

John wasn't certain if this lunatic was trying to frighten him or entice him. John was well aware of the fact that he enjoyed the thrill of danger a bit more than was healthy for him. That side of him wanted nothing more than to reply, _"Oh, God, yes."_ He might have said it too, if he wasn't so appalled at this heartless, merciless creature in front of him.

But, Harry... In the lab at St. Bart's he had said, _"Whatever it takes,"_ and he had meant it. Exerting himself to stretch out his hand, John met Sherlock's steely blue/gray eyes with determination. "You have a deal."

Sherlock grasped John's hand in a painfully tight grip and shook it once. "Excellent. I'll make a few calls, Harriet will be in Switzerland by Friday. You can set your things in the upstairs bedroom after seeing her off. We'll get started right away."

John paled. "You mean for me to _live_ here?"

Sherlock was arrogantly perplexed at John's confusion. "Naturally. It's much easier that way. I keep odd hours. Cases can keep me up for days at a time, and they often come on suddenly. I would lose valuable time if I had to send for you _every_ time something came up, and as we've already established you can't afford the rat hole you're living in."

John tried to cut Sherlock off, but the arrogant bastard just rumbled on ahead. "There's a bedroom just up the stairs. You'd be completely out of the way if I was thinking or experimenting. You'd best become a sound sleeper, and not count on much conversation. I play my violin, sometimes at all hours, when I need to think, and between cases I often don't talk for days. People say potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." With an ineffectual shrug, Sherlock turned away and strode to the laptop computer resting on his desk, hunching over it and typing furiously.

John still stood, gaping in the doorway. "You really expect me to live here? If you end up as busy as you hope to be, I'll never have any free time."

Sherlock didn't even look up as he replied. "So? You weren't exactly making productive use of it. This might even be good for you. It's already done more for your limp than that overpaid therapist of yours."

John clenched his teeth together to bite back a scathing retort. This would be awful. This would be utter hell, but he would do this for Harry. "How did you know I see a therapist?" he ground out, _trying_ for the sake of his sanity to have something even barely resembling a pleasant conversation.

Sherlock sighed exasperatedly, and glared at John over his shoulder. "You're an invalided solider with a psychosomatic limp; of course you have a therapist."

Well, John supposed that followed, but it still left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Yoo hoo," a chipper, elderly voice called from the landing of the stairs. John turned and managed a smile for Mrs. Hudson, who was just poking her head around the door. "I'm so sorry to interrupt you boys on your business, but I found this at the bottom of the stairs. Did you drop it?" She held out John's cane to him, and he took it, stunned.

When did he drop it? It must have been on the stairs, when he heard the gunfire. His eyes widened with the realization that he'd been striding and stomping all over the front room of the flat without missing his cane once. "Th-thank you," he said quietly, turning his astonished gaze on Sherlock's indifferent back. What had he said? _"It's already done more for your limp than that overpaid therapist of yours."_

...What on _earth_ had he just signed up for?

* * *

Harry held her bottom lip between her teeth as she scanned the line at the security check-point. She was too proud to admit she was scared. Excited, but scared. What if she didn't get it right this time? _Again_. After Johnny had, somehow, managed to get the money... it was a lot of money too, more than she thought they'd ever have...

A large, slightly calloused hand gripped her own and she smiled, squeezing back. "You'll be okay, Harry," John assured her.

She turned to smile at him, then leaned over to place a kiss on his cheek. "Thank you, Johnny." More than scared or excited, she was grateful. More grateful than she could properly express that her brother loved her so much; she didn't deserve it.

John returned her smile, and pulled her into a fierce hug. "Take care of yourself."

"You too," she breathed, blinking back tears. She would not cry. She would _not_ cry.

Pulling back, John braced his hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead. "You'd better go, or you'll miss your flight."

"Never," Harry promised, pressing one last kiss under her brother's ear before tearing herself from his arms. She took her place in line without looking back. If she thought too hard about leaving her brother behind...she might not be able to do it.

John watched her wistfully for a moment, sending a small prayer to any benevolent force that might be listening, before he turned to make his way back outside. Sherlock Holmes was waiting for him.

Sherlock had picked them up in cab, studiously avoided helping either of them place their meager belongings inside it, and escorted them to the airport. To John, it had felt like a police escort. John had every intention of keeping his word, but he hated the suffocating, trapped feeling that had dominated the majority of the ride.

When they had arrived, he had insisted that Sherlock wait outside. He may, more or less, control John's life after this, but he had _no right_ to play voyeur to John's goodbye to his sister. As far as Harry was concerned, John was just Sherlock's new assistant. Despite the darker, more worrying facets of their deal, this was basically correct. The last thing he wanted to do was cause his sister any more grief worrying about him; she was already facing the single most difficult thing she would likely ever have to do.

Sherlock stood statue still by the cab, his Belstaff coat billowing ominously in the wind. His lips twisted into a cruel smile as John approached. "Ready?"

A cold feeling clenched tight in Johns chest, but he nodded. He'd never backed away from a difficult situation in his life; he wasn't about to start now. They slipped into the backseat together and sped on their way to 221B.

As they rode, John intermittently peered over at his captor, trying to study him discreetly. His efforts were, apparently, fruitless. Ten minutes into their ride Sherlock turned to face him, one eyebrow raised high. John flushed with embarrassment, but did not shy away.

"How do you do it?" He asked, genuinely interested, despite himself.

"Do what?" Sherlock drawled in a lazy baritone.

"Deduce people. How did you deduce me? You said you work with the police, but the police don't consult amateurs. How did you _know_ all that?"

Sherlock let out a put upon sigh. "I didn't know, I _saw_. You have a tan face, but no tan above the wrists, unlikely to have tanned yourself sunbathing. Your haircut, and the way you hold yourself says military. Then, when you entered the lab you walked like you knew where you were going but you kept looking around. You'd been there before, but not recently. That, taken into account with your friendship with Mike, which must be rather close since he hasn't brought me anyone to deduce in months because of previous...complaints, leads to someone in the military with medical experience; most likely a doctor."

John was staring at him now, slightly open mouthed at the ease with which all this had been read off of him. Sherlock continued undeterred.

"You're limp was really bad when you walked in, but you never asked for a chair when you stood there; it was like you'd forgotten about it. That means the limp is at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatizing. Your shoulder opposite the one supporting you on the cane was unusually tense and close to your neck, implying injury or muscle strain of some kind. Ergo you were hit, most likely in the shoulder and the trauma of that injury transferred some weakness to your legs. Where does an army doctor get himself a suntan and wounded in action these days?"

"Afghanistan...or Iraq," John replied evenly.

Sherlock nodded, "True, but given recent politics, and the probable timing of your injury, Afghanistan was more likely."

"And what about Harry?" John pressed, unable to restrain his curiosity.

"Your phone. It was resting in your breast pocket, probably so you could keep a better eye on it, you didn't live in the best of neighborhoods. It was expensive. You were looking, desperately, for money, you wouldn't waste any on this. It must have been a gift. There were scratches on the case, not just one, but many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. A responsible man wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this. It's had a previous owner then. The next bit's easy."

John's eyes widened slightly in realization. "The inscription." Sitting in his breast pocket like it had been, it would have just been visible. _Harry Watson, From Clara. XXX_

Sherlock nodded sharply. "'Harry Watson,' clearly a family member who has given you his old phone. At least I thought Harry was a he. It was foolish of me not to see the big brother complex you had written all over your face." Sherlock shrugged and gestured back towards John's phone, which was still resting in the breast pocket of his shirt. "It wouldn't belong to your father, this is a young man's gadget. It could be your cousin, but being that desperate for money it was unlikely you had an extended family; certainly not one you're close to. That says sibling. I assumed brother because of the name. Now Clara. Three X's implies a romantic relationship. The price of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She's given this to him recently, this model's only six months old. So, it's a marriage in trouble then. Six months on and he's just given it away? If she'd left him he'd have kept the phone, probably. People do, sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave it to you, which says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for money, but you can't ask your brother for help, that says you've got problems with him. Probably you didn't like his drinking."

"How could you have _possibly_ known about the drinking?" John asked, looking at Sherlock pointedly.

"Shot in the dark; good one though. The power connection had tiny scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he plugs it in to recharge it but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober mans phone, you never see a drunk's without them." Sherlock paused for a moment before smugly adding. "There, you see, you were right."

"About?" John asked warily.

It was Sherlock's turn to look at him pointedly. "The police don't consult amateurs."

John huffed and looked out the window, at once appalled by this man's unspeakable arrogance, and awed by his brilliance. He shook he head, covered his mouth with his hand for a moment, then turned back to face Sherlock. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he was impressed. "That, was amazing," he replied haltingly, unable to keep the words back.

Sherlock stiffened, then looked at him oddly. "You think so?"

John huffed, irritated by this false modesty. "Of course it was! It was extraordinary!... It was quite extraordinary."

Sherlock looked away and frowned towards the front of the cab. "That's not what people normally say."

"What do people usually say?"

"Piss off."

"hmm, can't imagine why," John said wryly.

Sherlock frowned again and studied the view out of his own window. For just a moment John wondered if he'd glimpsed the wounded person this beast of a man used to be... From what little John knew no one really liked this man who could read their deepest secrets as though they had them written on their foreheads... It couldn't be easy to see that rejection time and time again because of something that seemed to come so naturally...

Sherlock had been right about everything, except Harry's gender. Harry had left Clara to protect her from more heartbreak, and John had taken Harry in, because all they had now, was each other. It had been that way for most of his and Harry's lives... It was entirely possible there were _two_ damaged people sitting in this cab together.

"We're here," Sherlock announced, rushing out of the cab and leaving an irate John to pay the tab. Hoisting his bags, John laboriously followed Sherlock up the stairs. He hadn't really noticed last time, but the place was an utter mess. There was stuff everywhere. Beakers, microscopes, slides, and Petri dishes cluttered what John supposed was originally the kitchen table. Piles of papers littered the floor, the bookshelves, and every other available place. Weapons poked out of corners and around a clutter of other, seemly useless objects. John spied a sword near the fireplace, a sturdy folding knife _in_ the mantel, an assortment of rope trailing around the sofa and over the floor, and... a riding crop?

"Jesus, Sherlock, are you going to clean this up? I can barely move around in here, and I didn't sign on to be your bloody housekeeper!"

Sherlock, who had already settled himself on the sofa and begun rifling through the assortment of papers and files on the coffee table didn't even deign to look up. "No," he replied, his voice flat and uninterested. "You didn't."

John let out a long sigh. Apparently, it didn't matter that he was exhausted from packing up, and helping his sister make arrangements, or that he still had all his unpacking to do! No one would make this place more habitable except himself. He squared his shoulders and marched towards the steps. The only way to start on a project this massive, was one _bloody_ step at a time.


	5. Fairer and Fouler

**Thank you JRLink for your review. Thank you also to all those who followed and favorited this story; you're support is a huge motivation!**

 **Note: All the cases presented in this story are based off cannon. 2 points if you can name the original Sir Arthur Conan Doyle story that inspires each case. ^_^**

* * *

Chapter Four: Fairer and Fouler

John groaned softly as he collapsed into the spare armchair by the fireplace. He was _exhausted_. He couldn't remember ever being so tired in his life than he'd been in the last two weeks, not even during med school. To say that Sherlock's place was a mess wasn't saying the half of it. Not even a fraction.

On his first night at 221B he'd had a lengthy nightmare about wandering dark, dusty halls filled with cobwebs. The flat wasn't big enough for 'wandering' but trying to make it halfway livable certainly felt like an endless journey.

Sherlock had fought him _every_ step of the way, damn him. Apparently John's attempt to so much as bring the papers into neat stacks was " _disturbing valuable source material_." The world's only consulting detective had a fit worthy of a BAFTA, and a two year old, when John had tried to remove _eyeballs_ from the microwave. John hadn't backed down, however, insisting that his indentured servitude have _some_ basic comforts. He still wouldn't trust most of the kitchen, for all his trying, but his bedroom was his own, and the living room, aside from the area of Sherlock's desk, now held a tolerable assortment of bric-a-brac which John had corralled into manageable stacks and piles. It wasn't what he wanted, but it was _finally_ something John could live with.

He had managed to eek out five hours of sleep last night, so, while he was nowhere near well rested, he felt halfway human once more. Lifting a hand to his face, John rubbed at his tired eyes a moment. As much as he would like to sleep the day away, he didn't want his circadian rhythm as screwed up as Sherlock's. Did the man _ever_ sleep? John had his doubts. They'd had a row just the other day when he'd tried to get Sherlock to _eat_.

John had been sitting by the fireplace, eating some toast with his tea, when Sherlock stormed out of his bedroom and began meticulously studying something under the microscope on his desk. Weary of the silence that had permeated the flat between fights, John had attempted to make casual conversation.

" _Want some toast?_ " he had offered.

Sherlock had looked up from his work and scowled at him. " _What day is it?_ " he had asked.

" _Tuesday..._ " John had replied, haltingly.

Sherlock had thought for a few moments then shook his head. " _No_ ," he had replied, quickly turning back to his studies.

Disturbed, John had stood and approached his jailer and flatmate. " _Sherlock, are you trying to tell me that you haven't eaten in a few days_?"

Sherlock had only 'hmmed' distractedly, as though this would be enough to get John to stop bothering him and leave him alone.

" _Sherlock_ ," John had insisted, " _you need to eat_."

Sherlock had growled in frustration and pushed away from his microscope. " _No, you need to eat, I need to think. The_ _ **brain**_ _is what counts; everything else is transport._ "

John had stood there for a moment, mouth gaping before insisting once more, " _Sherlock, you need to eat._ "

" _Fine_ ," Sherlock had snapped. He reached forward and tore the remaining toast from John's plate with such force that he knocked the plate from John's hands, and it shattered on the floor. John had continued to stare as Sherlock shoved the toast roughly into his mouth, wolfing it down like an animal. " _Happy_?" he had snarled around the bread in his mouth.

" _I'm going to go out for a bit,_ " John announced then, turning away with an uneasy feeling and searching for his coat. When they'd discussed the finer details of their arrangement it had been decided that John could leave the house for errands and other things, but that he would always be "on call" via text, if Sherlock needed him. They'd yet to share a case together and John had been reluctant to leave 221 B for long, a bit on edge with this new arrangement still. That day, however, he'd needed some breathing room and didn't return to the flat until very late at night...

A noise on the stairs broke John's reverie and he smiled when he saw Mrs. Hudson come into the flat with the day's post. "Good morning, Mrs. Hudson," John greeted her.

"Good Morning, John," She replied, setting the post down on the table beside him and leaning back on the arm of the sofa. "How are you feeling today?"

"I've been better," John admitted, "but I think I'll survive."

She leaned forward and patted his knee sympathetically. "Moving in together is always an adjustment," she replied, "No matter how long you've been seeing each other beforehand."

"E-excuse me?" John choked, sitting bolt upright.

"Oh don't worry," she soothed, "There's all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner, next door, has some married ones." She whispered the last bit conspiratorially.

John stared at her, mouth agape, and breaths coming in quick succession. If Mrs. Hudson hadn't been looking at him so earnestly, he might've laughed. "We're _not_ seeing each other," John insisted. "We _don't_ have that kind of relationship."

"Whatever your feel comfortable sharing," Mrs. Hudson replied with an indulgent smile. She didn't believe him. _How_ could she not believe him? Sherlock and John didn't speak to each other except to fight, and even that wasn't much...

John let out a soft sigh of defeat. This was not a battle he felt up to today, however she had gotten the idea into her head. Instead, he opted for changing topics. "Thank you for bringing in the post, Mrs. Hudson."

"You're welcome, dear," she said with a soft smile, leaning over to pat him on the knee once more before making her way back towards the door and down the stairs. John watched her go with a perplexed smile on his face. The idea of Sherlock and him together was so ludicrous... He'd definitely have to write Harry about this, she could probably use a laugh.

The thought of his sister had him turning to the post. He had been expecting another letter from her. He'd received one the first week she'd been away, gushing about the beauty of the grounds and the caring staff, and he'd sent one back encouraging her and giving her a watered down version of his own 'busy' week.

John thumbed through the envelopes, some of which were prospective cases for Sherlock, that would only end up stuck to the mantelpiece with a knife, and smiled when he recognized his sister's scratchy writing. He plucked the letter from the rest of the stack, and tore it open. He hoped she was still doing well, but braced himself just in case. Recovery, like any major life change, had its ups and downs. Leaning back in his chair once more, he began to read.

 _Dear Johnny,_

 _My head aches so fucking much right now, I don't even want to write this fucking letter._

John swallowed with apprehension and forced himself to read on before forming any opinions.

 _But, I did promise I would write, and I want to keep a promise for once in my fucking life._

 _God, Johnny, I had another dream about drinking last night. It felt so real, and when I woke up I just felt dirty. Not just because of the dream...but because I didn't want it to stop._

 _Sometimes I'm so afraid that I'll never be able to relax and enjoy myself without wanting a pint. They tell me these dreams are normal, but they also tell me that cravings can hit people who have decades of sobriety. Jesus, Johnny, am I going to be paying my dues for this mistake my whole life?_

John ran his hand over the paper in front of him wishing he could hold his sister. She might always need to be wary of potentially dangerous situations, yes, but that hardly meant that this wariness would define her life. As a doctor he'd seen many patients with chronic pain, or other life-altering injuries, move through their lives and find such unexpected hope and joy. He desperately hoped his sister could get to that point one day.

 _I've also been in a pissy mood because the roses I'm tending are sick... They've got some sort of virus or something that's turning them all brown, and causing them to rot. I'm taking steps to help them, but it just seems like further proof that everything I touch just turns to shit, you know?_

There were some hesitation marks before the next paragraph, as though Harry had fought with herself for a long time about what to write next.

 _I promised you, this last time in the hospital, that I would be honest with you... That's hard to do, Johnny, because I don't want to hurt you anymore... But I don't want to run away this time. Things aren't great right now, but I'm going to stay. I'm going to stay and see what happens, because I love you, and I don't want to die..._

 _\- Harry_

John closed his eyes and held the letter tightly in his hands. He was so proud of his sister. It was always easiest to run away when things are difficult or overwhelming, and Harry seemed so easily overwhelmed these days... In his letter back he would make sure to tell her he was proud of her. She was doing the difficult thing, the thing that probably felt impossible to her, but she had also been correct in her belief that it would probably be the thing most likely to save her life. She wouldn't live much longer, going on like she had been.

Folding the letter, John stood, intending to write an immediate reply, when the sound of footsteps on the stairs made him hesitate. Had Mrs. Hudson forgotten something? Unlikely. He didn't need to wait long before a thin, well-dressed, and well groomed man with a face paled by fear appeared in the doorway. "Mr-Mr. Holmes? He asked hesitantly."

"No," John replied, slipping his sister's letter in his pocket so that he could keep it close until he was able to reply. If this was a case, which it certainly appeared to be a first glance, John suspected he might not have time to write back for a while. "He's just-"

"A little late," Sherlock finished, causing John to jump at his unexpected nearness. _Where_ had he come from? "My apologies Mr. Brenton, please have a seat."

The gentleman before them smiled gratefully, and took a seat in front of the two chairs by the fireplace.

"You _knew_ he was coming?" John asked quietly, not wanting to be rude.

"Apparently," Sherlock replied with a bland expression.

"Why didn't you _tell_ me?" John asked, indignant.

"I was busy with an experiment," Sherlock replied sharply, clearly indicating what he felt was most important. "Besides, you know now, don't you?"

John bit back a sharp reply, not wanting to make their guest anymore uncomfortable than he already appeared to be. He sat down in his chair with a pinched expression while Sherlock sat down in his own chair looking tediously bored.

"Tell your story, Mr. Brenton. Begin at the beginning and leave nothing out, no matter how insignificant it may appear to _you_ ," Sherlock drawled, leaning back in his armchair with his head lolling.

Mr. Brenton sat stiffly looking hesitantly from John to Sherlock. He licked his lips nervously and asked, "Mr. Holmes? I thought this meeting would be confidential."

Sherlock waved one hand dismissively without bothering to look up. "Dr. Watson is a trusted associate. Whatever you want to say to me can be said in front of him."

John managed, just barely, not to laugh. _Trusted associate_. More like servant.

Mr. Brenton licked his lips once more and looked back at John, who did his best to look approachable and harmless. After a long moment Mr. Brenton nodded and began his story, looking earnestly at them both. "It's my maid, Mr. Holmes… God help me, the police will never believe me. And I couldn't really go to them, even if they would… the scandal."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock cut in. "We're all well aware how much reputation means to you, especially considering the prestigious law firm that employs you."

Mr. Brenton paled further, and nodded. "Exactly," he said quietly. "My maid, Camilla Rais, has…well… I don't know how to explain what's happened. She started working for us three years ago when my son, Daniel was born. She's helped out tremendously, and has always been a very hard worker. She's such a soothing presence to have in the house; I really don't know how we would've gotten by without her."

"I'm glad you found such good help when you needed it," John replied quietly, trying to help their nervous guest relax.

Mr. Brenton smiled wanly, before continuing. "Yes, well, anyway… this last month she's been acting strangely…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes but, thankfully, as he was looking at the ceiling his action went unnoticed by Mr. Brenton. "Strangely, how?"

"She's been so cold all of a sudden. Distant. She's not being rude or disrespectful, but something is different. I wasn't quite sure what to do about it, because the change was so subtle. But then she'd been to the doctor several times, so I thought perhaps something was ailing her. It's not really my place to ask, you see." Mr. Brenton chuckled nervously and smoothed his tie before continuing.

"I had every hope that whatever it was would clear up shortly, and that everything could just...go back to normal." He paused and swallowed thickly. "Until... until last night."

"What happened last night?" John asked leaning forward in his chair. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sherlock still slumped back in his chair, eyes closed. _What an_ _ **ass**_.

Mr. Brenton took a breath, then paused before forcing himself to continue. "Last night I woke up at around two o'clock in the morning, and decided to get a tall glass of water and a light snack from the kitchen. I have very good night vision, so I didn't bother turning on any lights as I went. I was about halfway down the stairs when I heard the side door-the one the leads out into the garden-close quietly.

"I paused on the stairs and held my breath; certain that someone had forgotten to lock the door, and we were about to be robbed. I was just about to creep back upstairs and phone the police when I saw Camilla walking down the hall. Her hair was loose and falling over her shoulders, and she was in her nightgown. As she passed the stairs I saw dark stains on her hands and face. The whole time she was walking past she never blinked or looked around, just continued forward with her arms still at her sides.

"I thought she might be in some kind of trance, and I wasn't sure whether I ought to follow her or let her be. Finally I decided what I saw must have been a trick of the light, and tried to put the image out of my mind. I had a drink of water and some biscuits. I had just about pushed the whole thing out of my head, except as I was about to go up the stairs I thought I saw something on the floor. I knelt down and touched it, expecting it to be a shadow or a trick of the light, but my finger came away sticky..."

Mr. Brenton's fingers where shaking slightly as he continued. "I walked back into the kitchen and fished a small torch out of one of the drawers; I didn't want to wake anyone just in case I was being paranoid...but I wasn't being paranoid...My finger was red, I think it was blood-"

"Did you take a sample?" Sherlock asked, raising his head for the first time.

Mr. Brenton's brow furrowed. "No, I-I didn't want to believe what I was seeing, so I washed my hand and went to bed."

Sherlock let out a long-suffering sigh and flopped his head on the back of his chair once more. "Destroying evidence," he muttered. "Of course." He grumbled quietly to himself for a few moments before waving his hand haphazardly through the air. "Continue."

Mr. Brenton hunched his shoulder's slightly, but pressed on. "I checked on Daniel and my wife, and all was well. I kept telling myself I was being silly, reading into things that weren't really there, but I just couldn't get the image of Camilla walking my halls with bloodstained hands out of my head.

"This morning, after Camilla had left to take Daniel to a play-date, and Lizzy, my wife, had gone shopping, I crept into Camilla's bedroom. I know I shouldn't have, it's an invasion of her privacy, but I had to be sure, and I...I found her nightgown in her laundry hamper." Mr. Brenton's words were tight, as thought he had to force them out. Without speaking further he pulled out a tightly wrapped plastic bag, and held it out to Sherlock.

Sherlock lurched forward and seized the bag immediately. With deft movements he quickly freed the bag of its contents, gingerly lifting the nightgown out of the plastic. On the sides, about where the hands would be, were two smears of a deeply troubling ruddy color.

John looked back at Mr. Brenton while Sherlock meticulously scanned the fabric before him. Their guest...client, was paler still, and his lips were trembling. "That's why I need your help, Mr. Holmes, I...I've got to find out what she's _done_."

Sherlock sniffed indifferently and stole off to the kitchen with the nightgown in hand. John watched him go before turning a sympathetic gaze on Mr. Brenton. "He's just gone to analyze the material and the stains. Would you like me to fetch you some tea while we wait?"

Mr. Brenton nodded glumly, and John stood, moving to join Sherlock in the kitchen. Sure enough, he was cutting away bits of the nightgown and placing them in slides under the microscope

"So, what do you think, Sherlock?" John asked as he set the kettle to boil. He received no reply. He tried again. "That's a pretty interesting story, don't you think?"

"People always think they're so bloody interesting and creative," Sherlock groused, his attention never leaving the samples in his hands. "There is barely any creativity left in the world. It's always the same motives. Money, greed, power, revenge, and _love_. Tedious."

John rolled his eyes. "Ah, yes. Other people suffering is so tedious. Whatever shall we do about it?" His sarcasm, however, fell on deaf ears. John watched as Sherlock studied the stains under his microscope. After a moment he used delicate tweezers to pluck particulate matter from the fabric, then put _those_ under his slides, and studied them as well. Sherlock hmmed' to himself and reached to a thin pipette, sprinkling a few drops of water onto his slide, stirring it gently, then adjusting the focus of the microscope once more.

The kettle sang shrilly and John plucked it from the stove, pouring the water for the tea. He opened the fridge in search of milk, but came away empty handed. "Sherlock!" he hissed, displeased, "Didn't I tell you we were out of milk?"

"So?" Sherlock muttered, isolating a few strips of the stained cloth, now free of particulate matter, and dunking them into some sort of solution.

John couldn't quite decide if Sherlock was being deliberately obtuse because there was finally a new case, of if he was being particularly cruel. He _knew_ John liked milk in his tea. Or at least, he should know. John had made a point of complaining about the lack of milk often enough. That, apparently, was just the way Sherlock was. Thoughtless, selfish, and self-centered. _Why_ did those traits have to coincide with such a fascinatingly brilliant mind?

John finished prepping the tea, and went to re-join their guest. He seemed to have re-gained a bit of his color, and thanked John as he passed him a mug. "There's some sort of rational explanation for this, right?" Mr. Brenton asked in a half whisper. "There has to be, there just _has_ to be."

John's lips pinched together in a thin, unhappy line. He wished he was able to offer Mr. Brenton better assurances, but all he was able to say, after a bit of thought was, "Sherlock is very...thorough when he's gathering data. Whatever the truth is, you'll have it in its entirety."

Mr. Brenton nodded grimly, and focused on his tea. He seemed a great deal calmer now that he'd gotten his story off of his chest. They sat together in companionable silence for a few moments before a sharp cry of, "Blood!" from the kitchen disturbed the peace. They both jumped and winced as they spilled hot tea over their hands. Before they had a chance to properly set their mugs down, Sherlock charged into the room with an oddly colored solution in a beaker.

"There _is_ blood on the nightgown, Mr. Brenton," Sherlock declared, setting down the beaker on the low table beside the sofa, much to John's distress, and pulling on his long Belstaff. "I do believe we shall have to have a look at your house."

"Now?!" Mr. Brenton quailed, getting up from his seat.

"Of course now," Sherlock snapped, "waiting only increases the chances of evidence contamination!" He was out the door and running down the steps in a sudden whirlwind of energy.

"We'd better follow him," John encouraged, pulling on his own jacket, and handing Mr. Brenton his. "If you don't want him peeking through your home unobserved that is. He's probably deduced your address."

Mr. Brenton blanched, and the both tore after the world's only consulting detective.

* * *

" _What_ , exactly is he doing?" Mr. Brenton asked as they watched Sherlock crawl and snuffle through his garden.

"Hell if I know," John replied, fighting the inappropriate urge to laugh. There was something amusing and, if he were honest, a bit endearing about Sherlock's single-minded determination. If only he wouldn't ruin the impression by opening his mouth.

Sherlock scrambled from shrub to shrub, pawing and examining every inch of soil. He'd been at it for twenty minutes, so John assumed he must have found something. John frowned suddenly, leaning forward and squinting at the world's only consulting detective. "Sherlock!"

The lanky man peered at him curiously, his index finger slipping from his mouth. John strode forward so as not to embarrass him by yelling across the garden. Sherlock might not care about other people's feelings, but _John_ still did. " _Why_ are you eating dirt?" he hissed once he was out of Mr. Brenton's hearing.

"I was analyzing the evidence," Sherlock said haughtily.

John rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, don't eat dirt."

Sherlock stood looming over John, in his personal space. John wasn't sure if this was intended to be an intimidation ploy, or if Sherlock really was so careless in ignoring societal niceties. Either way, John wasn't giving ground.

"Is that your _medical_ advice, then?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," John snapped, crossing his arms over his chest. "There are safer ways to analyze things."

It was Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes. " _Slower_ ways, you mean."

"Sherlock, that's not the-"

"I am ready to see your rubbish bin now, Mr. Brenton!" Sherlock yelled across the garden, cutting John off.

John pressed his forehead into his palm and counted to ten in his mind while Mr. Brenton colored and scurried off, Sherlock close on his heels. John followed, somewhat reluctantly.

Sherlock _did_ have the common sense to wear gloves when he began pawing through, first the general garbage, then the kitchen garbage, and finally the bins in each bathroom. Nothing John saw seemed out of the ordinary. There were paper towels, tea bags, assorted food garbage, some used sanitary napkins from the master bath, dental floss, etc. Still, if the slight curl at the end of Sherlock's mouth was anything to go by, he was pleased by what he found.

Setting the last bin back just as he had found it, Sherlock stood and tossed his gloves in the bin as well. "Well, that clears things up considerably," He declared looking back and forth from John to Mr. Brenton as though waiting for them to understand some hilariously clever joke.

John glanced at Mr. Brenton, then back at Sherlock. "It's not quite so clear to me, I'm afraid."

Sherlock looked at them both askance. "Oh God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring."

"Sherlock," John said, his tone low and warning.

Sherlock glared at him for a moment before turning squarely to face Mr. Brenton. "I'm afraid you'll find this rather costly. You really should have paid a few pounds up front, then you never would've been caught like this."

Mr. Brenton knit his brows together in confusion. "I-I'm sorry, I don't follow you."

"While it's hardly a rarity for an employer to bed an employee, especially a maid, you would think someone so concerned about 'image' would've gone through the trouble of purchasing condoms."

Mr. Brenton's face flushed red with indignation. "Mr. Holmes!" he began, but was rapidly cut off.

"Don't try to deny it; the evidence is all against you."

"What evidence?" Mr. Brenton and John chorused, though John sounded quite a bit calmer.

Sherlock's reply was rapid fire, as though he was reciting from memory, and couldn't get it out fast enough. "Your maid is young, and what some might consider attractive. Just after your wife had a baby, and would likely be 'unavailable' for her usual wifely duties, the site of Camilla must have come as quite a _relief_."

"That's not evidence!" Mr. Brenton insisted, flailing his hands about.

"No, but your rubbish bins _were_ rather full of evidence. The majority of women in childbearing years who live in the same domicile for any extended period of time synchronize their menstrual cycles. You said Camilla has been with you for three years? Why then, are there no feminine products in her bin, while the bin in your master bath is absolutely full of them? Given the state of their use I'd say your wife is almost finished with her menses. Even if Camilla were a bit out of sync with her, she would have started by now, or left some evidence of recently menstruating in your rubbish bins.

"Being a married man, the cravings of pregnant women should be no surprise to you. Camilla is an Italian name and, given the pictures I saw hanging in her room, she grew up there. It's not unheard of that she might have a craving for Beef Carpaccio, a dish traditionally served raw. Her craving seems to have been so intense that she ripped open the packaging and ate the meat without any further preparations. I found many food packages in your bins Mr. Brenton, but only the beef slices were torn open so aggressively. This craving could have been induced partly by nostalgia, but more likely because she has an iron deficiency, which has also resulted in her developing Pica."

"That explains the dirt!" John cried, suddenly understanding. "When Pica presents in pregnant women it's often first detected when they start eating dirt."

Sherlock nodded, "Exactly. She ate the meat then, after disposing it in the outside bin, and went immediately into the garden to further satisfy her craving. The ground around your Hydrangea shrubs was slightly disturbed and shows evidence of being contaminated with blood, indicating that she didn't even wash her hands first. "

John nodded in understanding, amazed. This deduction also explained why Sherlock had put dirt in his mouth; he was probably testing for the coppery tang of blood…though that was a considerable health risk. What did he really know about this woman? She could have any number of blood borne pathogens that he did not have enough information to deduce.

As usual, Sherlock never knew when to stop talking. He continued by saying, "She's planning on blackmailing you, you know, once she's past the typical dates for miscarriage."

Mr. Brenton's face had turned a deep shade of crimson. "Get out, Mr. Holmes!" He ordered. "Get off of my property before I set the dogs on you!"

"Am I meant to believe that you own something other than that Shitzu?" Sherlock asked, half chuckling with the absurdity of a Shitzu charging at them.

"Get out!" Mr. Brenton insisted, pointing forcefully at the garden gate.

Sherlock smirked, and then began walking, John close at his heels. By the time they were on the streets, John could hear Sherlock chuckling quietly. "Send the Shitzu after us," he murmured, amused. "Some small dogs are quite determined, but _that_ Shitzu would quail in terror form a _dust bunny_."

"Sherlock," John began, his voice on the edge of laughter despite himself, "It's really not nice to laugh at your clients."

"Then stop laughing," Sherlock replied, turning to look at him with a disbelieving expression.

John turned his face away, and pressed a hand over his mouth to suppress the stray chuckles that he could not control. By the time Sherlock had hailed a cab and they were on their way to Baker Street, he felt a bit calmer, and decided to voice his thoughts from earlier. "That really was brilliant, how quickly you pulled that case together."

Sherlock smirked slightly, adjusting his scarf as the cab sped off.

"You know," John continued, "it really _wasn't_ safe to test for blood by putting something in your mouth. That woman could have any number of blood borne pathogens you don't know about."

"So?" Sherlock countered, defiant.

"So, I'm a doctor, Sherlock, and I don't want to see anyone needlessly hurt."

"That's why you joined the army, then? To make sure no one was _hurt_?" Sherlock snapped back.

John sighed, but didn't take the bait. Would this man _ever_ be amenable to building a relationship that wasn't based on animosity?

Once again, as soon as they pulled up to 221 B Sherlock dashed out, leaving John to settle the bill. Scowling, John marched up the steps to their flat. "Are you going to do that _every_ time, Sherlock?" he asked, irritated.

"I'm going to need you to run to Tesco's and pick up a few things for me," Sherlock informed him, plucking a hastily scrawled list from his desk and holding it out to John.

"Seriously?" John asked, affronted that Sherlock did not even acknowledge his question.

Sherlock, who had looked over his shoulder at the contents of his desk, turned back, looking perplexed. "Yes, seriously. I don't joke about experiment supplies. The first case is over. It wasn't _that_ interesting, but it should be enough for your first blog entry. In the meantime I need more work to occupy my mind, and for this experiment, I will need these supplies." Sherlock finished by shaking the list agitatedly at him.

Johns sighed and his shoulders sagged. "Really, Sherlock, can't this wait until morning? I'm absolutely knackered from getting this place livable. I wanted to write a note to Harry and turn in early for once."

Sherlock's expression hardened. "Yes. It must be such a relief to you that your sister is getting the treatment she so dearly _needs_."

John's eyes widened slightly as he realized he was being threatened. Christ, would this bloody sociopath use _any_ opportunity to bend John to his will? John swallowed thickly and snatched the paper out of Sherlock's hands, his good mood evaporating. If had been foolish of him to forget, even for a moment, whom he was really dealing with.

When he made it to Tesco's John was not surprised to find that they did _not_ have what he needed. He could try a medical supply store, but if he was going to have a safe place for Harry to land once her treatment was complete, he really needed to save every bit of his pension that he could. "What is that blasted idiot going to do with a size twenty three scalpel anyway?" John muttered, looking fruitlessly over the shelves once more.

"You won't find those here, I'm afraid," came a soft voice from behind him.

John turned about, and found himself facing another man, several inches taller than him, with thick brown hair and sympathetic looking brown eyes. "You might have more luck in a medical supply store."

John nodded, and smiled ruefully. "I was just thinking that," he admitted.

"It's an odd time of day for restocking," the stranger continued. "Do you work for an urgent care clinic, or something?"

John snorted derisively. "Or something it right. Sometimes I think I work for a madman." When the brown haired man in front of him frowned in concern, John continued. "I work for Sherlock Holmes, he's—"

"The Consulting Detective," the other man cut John off, a look of recognition spreading over his face.

"Yes, exactly," John replied somewhat surprised. "Do you know him?"

"Only by reputation," the stranger replied with a warm smile. "I know he works with the Yard sometimes, and he used to be at St. Bart's morgue quite frequently. We never ran into each other, though."

"How long have you worked there?" John asked curiously.

"Oh, a little over a year now," the stranger replied. "It's interesting work, and it keeps me busy."

John nodded. "Sherlock might not have been to the morgue recently, but he's been using the labs. I met him there roughly three weeks ago."

The stranger 'hmmed' thoughtfully. "I wondered if there was something going on between him and the previous morgue assistant. She did leave in quite a hurry for some doctors without borders program."

John choked on a sudden laugh, then quickly apologized. "I'm sorry; I just have such a hard time picturing him getting along with _anyone_ , much less getting along romantically."

The sympathy returned to those warm brown eyes. "He's that difficult to work with?"

John sighed. "Well, not always. I haven't worked for him long, and I've seen him in moments where he just seems like an incredibly intelligent unusual person…but then he opens his mouth." John grimaced, reflecting on some of his more recent memories, and the stranger winced in sympathy.

"Do you mind if I see your shopping list?" The stranger asked, indicating the paper in John's hand.

John looked at the paper and shrugged. "Sure," he replied, handing it over. "If you know any cheap medical supply places, I'd love to have their address."

The stranger scanned the paper thoughtfully for a moment, then said, "Listen, I've heard quite a number of stories about Sherlock Holmes being difficult to deal with, and we always have more than we need at the morgue. If you wanted to nick a few supplies, I don't think anyone would really miss them."

John's shoulders sagged in relief. He didn't much like the idea of just taking the supplies on his list, but he was between a rock and a hard place. "Thank you, really, you have no idea how much easier you've just made my night."

"You're welcome," the stranger replied, flashing a welcoming grin. "Do you want to head there now, or some other time?"

"Now's probably best," John admitted, "if you don't mind."

"Not at all," the stranger replied, and they both headed towards the door. They had walked for half a minute in companionable silence before the stranger asked, "Are you in the medical field too?"

John grimaced and shook his head. "I'm sorry. I've forgotten my manners completely today. Yes, I'm not in practice right now, but I'm a doctor. Dr. John Watson." He stopped next to the stranger and shook his hand.

"Nice to meet you, John. My name is James. James Moriarty."

"James," John repeated with a smile, "It's nice to meet you too. Thanks again, you're really doing me a big favor here."

James shrugged and said, "It's only a few medical supplies, though I must admit I'm also curious about what he wants a size twenty three scalpel for."

"Tell you what, let me treat you to lunch sometime, and I'll tell you what he used it for, _if_ I can understand it when I see it."

James smiled warmly once more. "I'd like that. Here, let me give you my number."

The quickly exchanged numbers, saving each other as contacts in their phones. "Alright," John said, looking up once he was finished, "We'd better get going; I don't want to keep you out too late."

"I don't mind," James replied amicably, and they set off once more into the night.


	6. A Tangled Web

**Thank you to Thilbo4Ever for your review! Thank you also to all those who have followed and favorited this story! You're support keeps me writing. ^_^**

 **Note: The case in the chapter is also based on a Cannon Sherlock case, but you only see half the story in this chapter, the next chapter reveals the rest. Four points to anyone who can guess correctly with only this chapter posted!**

 **Trigger warning!: There is a rather grisly murder depicted in the chapter, please be safe.**

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Chapter Five: A Tangled Web

"Thank you for meeting me like this," James said, leaning back in his chair, "It's nice to get away from the office on such a nice day."

John smiled and put his water down, having just finished drinking from it. " _Thank you_ for bailing me out a few days ago. I really didn't relish the idea of paying for those supplies myself." He and James had met, as planned, at a small Italian restaurant. They had ended up meeting for dinner instead of lunch; things had been too busy at the morgue for James to get away before the end of the day. The weather was so mild, for once, that some tables had been placed outside.

"Sherlock wouldn't have reimbursed you?" James asked, tipping his head to one side in confusion.

John snorted with laughter and shook his head. "No. That miser won't even pay for his own cab rides to and from cases. Every time, I swear, he practically breaks the sound barrier getting out of the cab and sticks me with the bill."

James frowned. "He doesn't sound like a very nice employer."

"No," John agreed, "he isn't."

"Why did you leave medical practice to start working for him in the first place?" James asked, leaning forward slightly to pick up his sandwich.

John chose his next words carefully, not wanting to reveal too much about something so personal. "My sister needed more help than I could really provide on my pension. I was able to come to an agreement with Sherlock that was more helpful than working in a clinic would have been. I intend to return to medical practice though, maybe in a year or so. We'll have to see how things go."

James smiled as he chewed. Once he had swallowed, he said, "That's a very admirable trait, looking after your family."

John returned the smile. "Thank you; I think so too."

"How is everything going?" asked the restaurant owner, Angelo. His Italian accent was thick, and his overall manner was very inviting.

"Fine, thank you," James replied

"Ah!" Angelo exclaimed, clapping his hands together. "I will get a candle for your table. It's more romantic."

"I'm not his date," John protested, but the owner had already gone to fetch said candle.

James chuckled softly, and placed a hand gently on John's outstretched arm. "Save your breath. I've eaten here a few times, and I've seen him at this before. He's bound and determined to fix up anybody and everybody."

John sighed and lowered his arm in defeat. "Whatever makes him happy, I suppose."

"I think it's cute," James replied.

John shrugged. "Cute and meddling do ride a fine line together sometimes."

"Sometimes," James agreed.

"What brought you into medicine?" John asked, pausing to take a spoonful of his soup.

James looked thoughtful for a moment before he replied. "I've always really liked puzzles and mysteries. Medicine seemed to be a field where I could practice that interest and help people at the same time."

"And what lead you to being a morgue assistant?"

"Sometimes there's a great deal of mystery behind a death, and much of that can be solved in the morgue, if you know what to look for. For example; although this one is easy, I can tell if someone was a smoker by looking at their hands. Most of the time anyway. If they smoked with a pipe then their mouth would give away more than their hands." James talked animatedly, his passion for his craft clearly evident in his face. "Also, it feels like the best way to honor the dead, by telling their story."

John respected that point of view immensely. These days, far too many doctors were arrogant, and self-assured, much like the world's only consulting detective. "Do you want to stay on in the morgue? Or did you have something else in mind to work towards."

James shrugged. "I don't know. As much as I love my work, my interest is varied. I'm working on a number of projects right now. With any luck, more than one of them will bear fruit." He paused to take a sip of his water, then asked, "So, how has it been? Working for Sherlock, I mean. I hear he leads a dangerous and interesting life."

John thought for a moment shaking his head at the myriad of memories that filled three short weeks. "Well, the first time I met him he was shooting a wall because he was 'bored.'"

James's eyes widened comically. "Seriously?!"

"Oh, that's not the half of it! You know he keeps a skull, a real human skull, on his mantelpiece for 'company.' And, he has a riding crop mixed in with the fireplace pokers. When I asked, he informed me that he had used it to _beat a corpse_ to prove a point about one of his most recent cases."

"Well," James began, "that certainly is interesting, but I don't know about dangerous."

"We've only shared a handful of cases together so far, so I don't have many examples to choose from. I wrote a story about our first one, and posted it on my blog; that's one of the main reasons we came to our...arrangement. He says there is a shortage of 'interesting' cases, and he's hoping the publicity will bring more clients. It's not like he appreciates the ones he has though. He gets letters in the post sometimes, and all the 'boring' cases, which is most of them, are nailed to the mantelpiece with a jackknife."

"What was your first case about?" James asked, taking another bite of his sandwich.

"Some man thought his maid had done something unspeakable; he saw her walking down the hall at night with blood on her hands and mouth. But, it turns out she was pregnant with her employer's child and had a craving for raw beef in the middle of the night. When Sherlock outlined everything for his 'client' the man ordered us off the property; tried to threaten us with a Shitzu."

James covered his mouth and chuckled quietly. "Well, that could've been a bit dangerous I suppose."

"If it was rabid, maybe, and had the slightest inclination to chase us," John replied, thoroughly amused by the memory. "The case of the Three Shot Derringer, which I'm going to write up next, is a better example of dangerous." James perked up in interest, but John, who still felt the effects of sleep deprivation from said case, wasn't up to relating the tale just yet.

"Not all of the cases make for good blog posts," John continued. "I try to pick interesting ones that, hopefully will draw new cases, ones interesting enough to satisfy Mr. 'World's Only Consulting Detective'."

"He's really that picky?" James asked, looking slightly appalled at the image of Sherlock that John was painting.

"He's a giant two year old drama queen with an unhealthy need to be the center of attention, if only so he could shut everyone else up," John replied in a rush, rolling his eyes.

"You should send me the link to your blog," James encouraged, "I'd like to read what you wrote."

"Sure," John replied, sending James a quick link via text.

James smiled and glanced down at his phone when it buzzed. "Thank you." He frowned then, glancing at an ugly bruise on John's wrist, and leaned forward to rest his own fingers lightly on top of it. "What happened here?"

John scowled at the bruise, though his temper was slightly mollified by James's concern. "Mycroft."

"Mycroft?"

"Mycroft Holmes," John continued. "I met Sherlock's older brother yesterday."

"I didn't know he had an older brother," James replied, surprised.

"That's just the thing, no one does! When I finally got back from being kidnapped—"

"You were kidnapped?!" James asked, cutting John off.

"It's not as drastic as it sounds," John said, trying to ease his friend's anxiety. "Apparently, that's just Mycroft's way of saying 'hello;' at least that's what Sherlock told me."

"So, what happened?"

John took a few more mouthfuls of soup and looked thoughtful. "Well," he said at last, "I was out for a walk—Sherlock can be a bit much to handle at times—and the phone box beside me started ringing. I looked around, but I didn't see anyone, so I kept walking. Then the next one I passed rang, and the next. Finally I picked it up, and asked who was there. The only thing I heard was, 'Get in the car, Dr. Watson.' That sounded more than a bit ominous, especially since a black Bentley was just pulling to the curb. I hung up the phone and tried to get away, but two large men got out of the car and forced me into it. I would've put up more of a fight, but there was another man waiting in the car who introduced himself as Mycroft Holmes."

"What does he look like?" James asked, absorbed in this new story.

John shrugged. "Taller than me, but not quite as tall as Sherlock, average weight, maybe slightly overweight, blue eyes and brown hair, which was slightly thinning. His eyes were really sharp, a lot like Sherlock's, I don't think they miss anything. I was so surprised to hear about another Holmes that I heard him out."

"What did he say?"

"Not much, mostly he made veiled threats that if I ever hurt his brother there would be 'consequences,' and that he was always watching over Sherlock, that he worried about him constantly."

"You should report him to the police," James insisted. "He has no right to just take you off the street like that."

"I'm not too bothered about it. It just seemed like overblown protective older brother nonsense." John shrugged. "Sherlock did tell me that Mycroft works for the government; that he practically _is_ the British Government. I couldn't tell if that was a veiled threat, or if he was just spouting facts at me." He smiled then, almost smugly. "Either way I'm not someone who is easily intimidated."

James returned his friend's smile with one of his own. "No. You're not. I like that about you."

"Thank you," John replied. "I have the impression, after talking with Sherlock, that his brother and he bicker a lot, and dragging other people into the argument in dramatic fashion is just par for the course. The weirdest thing about it was when Mycroft offered me money to spy on his little brother for him.

"After all those threats?" James asked, leaning forward to take another bite of his sandwich. When he had swallowed he added, "It certainly doesn't sound like he trusts you."

"Agreed. I'm not sure what he was playing at. I refused him, and not just because I didn't trust him; his offer went against my principles."

"Maybe he was testing you," James suggested.

John looked thoughtful for a moment before shaking his head. "Maybe. I doubt it though. You'll never believe what Sherlock suggested."

"What?" James asked, leaning forward with interest.

"He said that, next time, I should accept, and split the money with him while feeding Mycroft falsified information."

James shook his head and chuckled softly. "Those two are a real piece of work." Then, after a small pause he added, "If you ever need a break from the madness, feel free to phone me; I enjoy spending time with you."

John smiled, grateful. "Thank you. I have a feeling I'll need to take you up on that to keep my sanity."

James smiled warmly, and opened his mouth to speak, when a 'ping' from John's phone interrupted him. John looked down and frowned. There was a second 'ping' about ten seconds later that caused John's jaw to drop slightly.

"What is it?"

John turned the phone around so that James could see.

 _Case. Come at once, if convenient. –SH_

 _If inconvenient, come anyway. –SH_

James looked up, concerned. "Can he really make those kinds of demands on your time?"

John winced, pocketing his phone, and placing money on the table to pay for their meal. "I am, kind of, on call when he needs me. Sorry to cut this short. Let's meet again sometime."

"I'll hold you to it," James replied with a warm smile. He reached forward and handed John the small baguette that had come with his soup. "At least take something for the road."

John nodded and smiled. "Thanks, he doesn't really believe in 'breaks' once he gets started."

James gave him a sympathetic smile and waved after him as he took off down the street.

"Your date did not go well?"Angelo asked, suddenly at James's elbow once more.

James smiled pleasantly and leaned back in his seat. "Oh, I think it did," he replied. "Things are just starting out, after all."

Angelo smiled, pleased, and began clearing the table.

* * *

"Alright, Sherlock," John said, stepping into the apartment, "What is it?"

Sherlock was already in his coat pacing the room, with an older gentleman standing beside him.

"John, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade," Sherlock said sharply, already herding him towards the door. "He will explain on the way."

"Sherlock!" The older man objected. "It's one thing to bring you in on a case, but I don't even know him!"

Sherlock, however, had already pushed past John, and down the stairs. Lestrade rolled his eyes and sighed, staring up at the ceiling for a long moment as though praying for patience. At last he looked over at John, and smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry. It's nothing against you; it seems like breaking protocol is his favorite pastime."

"No worries," John replied, holding out his hand to shake the older man's. "My name is Dr. John Watson."

"Nice to meet you, I'm Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. You're a doctor, you say?"

John nodded. "Yes."

Greg looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, "You know, the medical examiner has looked over the scene already, but it wouldn't hurt to have a second opinion. This is quite an unusual case."

"I'd be happy to help any way I can," John replied amicably.

"Let's go, let's go!" Came Sherlock's impatient voice from the front door.

Greg rolled his eyes again. "We should get going before he breaks into my car and hotwires it."

"You know," John said, "I wish that statement would shock me."

Greg chuckled. "Yeah, Sherlock is one of a kind. How long have you known him?"

"Roughly a month," John replied.

Greg nodded. "He'll still surprise you in a year, trust me. Maybe even in a decade." John groaned internally and followed Greg and Sherlock out the door.

Once they had all piled into the car, John asked, "So, what are we heading into?"

The Detective Inspector's lips pulled into a taught, unhappy line. "It appears to be a suicide. It's a grisly one too."

"It's not suicide," Sherlock chimed in, unhelpfully.

"As I was saying," Greg continued, "It's a well respected man in his fifties, Peter Wolfram. There's no note, no evidence of or history of emotional distress, no financial troubles, no hint of any enemies... The man lived a quiet _normal_ life... It just doesn't make any sense."

"The wife worries you, obviously," Sherlock interjected once more.

Once they were stopped at a light Greg turned and glared sharply at Sherlock. "Do _you_ want to explain this case, Sherlock?"

Sherlock leaned back then, waving his hands with an air of indifference, "Not until after you've finished your painfully inadequate version that has missed everything of importance, naturally."

Greg growled softly in his throat, turning away from his insufferable companion. After a lengthy moment of silence, he continued, addressing himself more to John than to anyone else. "The wife _is_ a possible suspect; the spouse always is. She's understandably upset, and a good friend of the family, who was visiting, has decided to stay and help support her."

"And you think they might be having an affair; in this together to rid themselves of the now troublesome husband," Sherlock drawled as if he were bored.

Greg's hands tightened on the steering wheel, but he nodded. "It's a perfectly rational line of thinking to investigate."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and 'hmmed' doubtfully, but declined to make any further comment.

"It seems like you have several strong leads to investigate," John said, glowering briefly at Sherlock, though he didn't believe it would actually do any good. "Why did you call Sherlock in if things seem so simple."

"Because, however improbably, he has risen above the dregs of intellect that work for him," Sherlock replied with a smirk.

"Sherlock has been tremendously helpful in a number of difficult cases," Greg responded, his irritation dampening slightly as he drew on the stores of patience he needed whenever Sherlock was around. "And there are a few unusual points about this case that are unsettling. The fact that we have yet to find any reasonable cause for suicide, and the way we found the body..." Lestrade shook his head. "Something just doesn't fit. I'll let you have a look at the scene first, then we can see if we can't piece something together before Sherlock steals the show."

Sherlock grinned shamelessly as they pulled up to a rather large, stately looking house on the outskirts of London. John took a moment to admire what he could see of the gardens as they passed. Everything looked so...peaceful. It contrasted sharply with the scene that awaited them.

Police techs were everywhere, photographing, and cataloguing anything that might be of the slightest importance. The front hall opened to a grand wooden staircase. It was the elegant study to the left of the entrance, however, that held everyone's attention. There, slumped in a leather wingback chair by the unlit fireplace, was a faceless body in an immaculate suit, if you didn't count the blood splatter.

John, Sherlock, and Greg pulled blue medical gloves on their hands as they neared the body. John frowned in sympathy for the victim. The Detective Inspector had not overstated the gore. The body was faceless, because the face had been blown off, and the skull had been badly damaged. It was sunken into a bloody pulp that only vaguely resembled a head.

After gentle prodding and examining, John concluded that the rest of the body appeared to be whole and untouched. "Was it a short barreled shotgun?" John asked, turning to face Lestrade, who nodded at him.

"We found it on the floor at his feet. It must have slipped out of his hands after he shot himself."

John stood, and frowned down at the body. Sherlock, meanwhile was idly scanning the study, running his hands along the wooden paneling on the wall, and over the bookshelves. John's frown deepened. He had _barely_ taken a look at the body before wandering off. John turned back to the body once more, kneeling down and examining the hands. "Was his wedding ring taken into evidence?" John asked

Lestrade shook his head. "That wouldn't happen until the body is taken back to the morgue. It's one of the things that feels off to me. If his marriage was as happy as it was reported to be, then _where_ is his wedding ring?"

John opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by a pained wailing from the hallway. "Please! My husband, I've _got_ to see my husband! Haven't you done everything you need to do by now?"

The wailing died off into despondent sobbing, and John could just glimpse a tall, thin woman with dark hair being embraced by a sturdy, broad shouldered gentleman "Come along, Susan, the police still have much work to do. The house is safe, they have searched everywhere. Now they are needing us to give statements down at the Yard." John thought he heard a slight accent in the man's voice, but it was too faint to place.

"Must we, Ilia?" The thin woman whimpered, looking up at her companion, who nodded down at her.

"We must," he assured her, gently leading her along. "Come, I will be with you all the way through."

The pair were accompanied by a sympathetic looking officer with tanned skin and curly brown hair.

"That's Donnevan," Greg said, coming to stand beside John. "She's on my team, and she's a hard worker. She'll do a thorough job of questioning them."

"Thorough enough for the Yard, anyway," Sherlock agreed haughtily, joining them.

"What are _your_ thoughts, Sherlock?" Greg asked pointedly.

"Hm? Oh, nothing too much, yet," Sherlock replied, shrugging. "We'll just have to see how things go."

"Sherlock," Greg said sternly.

"Thank you for inviting me to the case, it's been quite interesting. I'll call you if I think of anything."

"Sherlock!" Greg cried again, but Sherlock ignored him, pulling John towards the door.

"Goodnight!" Sherlock called over his shoulder, raising one hand as he sped out the door. He was running now, and John ran with him, tossing a guilty look over his shoulder at Lestrade who stood in the doorway of the house, glaring after them.

They paused a few blocks away and piled into a cab Sherlock had summoned out of nowhere. Once he had settled his seatbelt around himself, John asked, "Why did we rush out of there so fast?"

"Lingering would have only raised suspicion," Sherlock asserted, not bothering to clarify when John looked at him, bewildered. At last John shook his head and stared out the window, surrendering to whatever whim or clue was driving Sherlock to be so cryptic. Entering into a battle of wills with Sherlock, he'd learned the hard way, was only an exercise in frustration.

After a minute he turned to glance at Sherlock once more, his curiosity getting the better of him. "So you've got the whole thing sorted, then?"

"Nearly," Sherlock confirmed, the hint of a smile gracing his features.

"And are you planning on sharing any details?" John asked irritably. "This won't make for an interesting story if all I can write about it is, 'We went to a grisly murder scene, Sherlock looked at the body for two seconds, then poked about the room a bit before leaving in a hurry.'"

"You'll have plenty of interesting details, tomorrow," Sherlock replied dismissively. "Although it _is_ interesting that you've suddenly taken such an interest in your work. I thought you were rather distracted, what with your date and all."

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, it was _one_ dinner, and I wasn't his date!"

Sherlock shrugged and looked distractedly out the window. "If you say so, though you certainly seemed happy enough when you left, and irritated enough when I cut it short."

John snorted derisively. "As if I would even _try_ to date someone when I've got to deal with your particular brand of madness!" He crossed his arms in a huff and stared morosely out the window. It's not that he wasn't interested in having someone in his life, but he had a duty to his sister first, and he _never_ abandoned his responsibilities.


	7. The Ugly Truth

**Thank you to everyone who has left reviews, favorited and/or followed this story. Your support means a lot to me. 3**

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Chapter Six: The Ugly Truth

John set an early alarm for himself the next morning, not wanting to be rudely dragged out of bed by his crazy flatmate. He had no doubts that Sherlock wouldn't give a second thought to dragging him all over London in his sleepwear; a situation to be avoided at all costs.

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen for the time being, a fact which John was immensely grateful for. It was so rare to have a moment to himself in this flat, that he was not about to let the moment pass unappreciated.

It also gave him time to consider the strange turn his life had taken since he'd first met Sherlock. It hadn't been easy, in any sense of the word, but it had not been quite as awful as he'd thought it would be, either. Sherlock had made it quite clear that he could make almost any demand of John that he saw fit when he'd sent him out for those damn medical supplies, But, aside from ill-timed and ludicrous grocery/supply runs, John hadn't been asked to do more than to fill his role as Sherlock's assistant and blogger.

He'd only written a few cases so far, but he'd seen enough of Sherlock's daily life to get a sense of the rhythm he might expect. He was well-aware that there would be more difficult cases that would keep him up late, but the pace was more than tolerable for now.

The brunt of the unpleasantness he had suffered so far had more to do with Sherlock's attitude than anything else. He was so focused on his cases, or his experiments that John could almost forget that Sherlock had suggested this arrangement for the sole purpose of breaking John's spirit. Sherlock _was_ callous, but John had never yet seen him be cruel. It made him wonder about the history of his unusual benefactor. What had happened to him that shaped him into what he was today?

As if thinking could summon him, Sherlock whirled out of his bedroom, resplendent in his dressing gown. He wasted no time in examining, _whatever_ it was he had growing on their kitchen table.

Feeling overwhelmingly curious, now that he'd gotten a decent rest, John peered at him over his tea, and asked, "Will you tell me what the plan is for today?"

"We are going to question the witnesses," Sherlock replied briskly, his eyes locked on his experiment.

"I thought the yard did that yesterday," John asked, walking past Sherlock to rinse out his mug. The sink, thankfully, was currently free of any experiments.

"Not the way we're going to question them." Sherlock glanced at the clock. "Speaking of which, we'd better get going before Lestrade gets here."

"Did you call him?"

Sherlock smirked as he strode towards his bedroom. "He's meeting us at the crime scene."

John sighed exasperated as Sherlock closed his door. He knew this meant _something_ bad, he just didn't know what. He shrugged on his jacket, resigned, and started making his way downstairs. Sherlock had such a _fire_ lit under him when he was working that if you could get a few steps ahead of him (physically) it usually helped you keep up.

* * *

They surprised Susan and Ilia, the pair that Donovan had taken in for questioning the night before, in the garden. They were kneeling together by the flowerbeds, doing some weeding and talking in hushed voices. What really struck John wasn't that Susan was engaged in such a _normal_ activity after being so recently and violently widowed-many people dealt with grief by struggling for a sense of normalcy-it was the _smile_ on her face as she spoke with her friend. It was so vibrant and full of life that it seemed wholly disrespectful of her loss.

John frowned at Ilia as they both looked up, convinced that this ' _friend_ ' of the family was up to no good. It might not be the simple adultery case that Detective Inspector Lestrade was suspecting, but John felt certain that Ilia was at the heart of this.

"Good Morning," Sherlock said warmly, a smile spreading across his face and merry crinkles forming at the edges of his bright blue eyes. "It's so nice to have some mild weather isn't it? Perfect for weeding."

Susan Wolfram immediately paled, but struggled to recover herself with a wan smile. "Y-yes," she agreed, her color returning quickly. John doubted that she had even seen Sherlock the night before, so she couldn't have recognized him. _Why_ then did she seem so nervous? She _had_ to be guilty of something. Her companion meanwhile was stone faced, his frown only increasing every time Sherlock turned his dazzling smile towards him.

"You have _magnificent_ garden," Sherlock gushed, looking casually around. "Beautiful roses." He gently held a small yellow bud in his hand, caressing the petals. "My landlady had tried for _ages_ to get a small rosebush growing outside our building, but she's never had any luck."

John, who had originally thought that Sherlock was being cheerful to be snide eyed the consulting detective suspiciously. He _knew_ Sherlock was acting-he had to be-but _damn_ was he convincing. His voice was so warm, his movements so casual. This deception angered John, because he knew it must be motivated solely for the benefit of the case. That thought also saddened him. Even if it was a ruse, he'd never seen Sherlock look so relaxed... Certainly he'd seen him happy, especially when an experiment was going well, or during the few cases he had yet to witness, but never relaxed.

Susan nodded sympathetically. "Roses can be temperamental; you need to give them a lot of attention, sometimes. Miniatures on a trellis might work best if she doesn't have a lot of space. Has she tried burying banana peels near the plants roots? That can help ward off diseases."

Sherlock tapped his forehead as though he had missed something obvious. " _Of course_! I think I remember hearing that somewhere."

John fought to keep a straight face. The idea of Sherlock not remembering exactly when and where he'd heard of something was laughable. The man had an eidetic memory.

Ilia looked almost hostile, his face flushed with apparent anger. He stepped up beside Susan, and placed a protective arm over her shoulders. "I will thank you to be on your way, _sir_. We are busy with family concerns."

Sherlock's smile instantly fell into a look of intense concentration, as though he could pin Ilia with his gaze alone. "I know," he rumbled ominously.

Susan was just starting to look worried when the lights of a police car flared behind them. John turned to see a very cross looking Detective Inspector storm out of his car and towards the world's only consulting detective.

"Good Morning, Detective Inspector," Sherlock said flatly, without turning around. There was no longer even the pretense of good humor, just the steady gaze of a hunter that had cornered its prey. "I see you received my invitation."

Greg's face reddened and he swiped something small and rectangular out of Sherlock's outstretched hand. Leaning close to the lanky man, Greg hissed, " _Stealing_ my identification as a Detective Inspector, is _not_ an invitation, Sherlock!"

John's eyes widened and, despite himself, he found the smirk dancing around the edges of Sherlock's mouth contagious. He bit back a chuckle and looked sternly at his flatmate. He was _not_ going to laugh. He was _not._ "Sherlock, that is a _crime_ ," He said in a low voice.

Sherlock smiled remorselessly at them both, especially at John, as though he could tell his flatmate was inappropriately amused.

John bit the inside of his cheek and looked away. Sherlock was being ridiculous, and he was not going to encourage him.

"Are any of you here for a _reason_?" Ilia asked, drawing their attention back to his stern expression.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, focusing his steely gaze on Ilia once more. "We have all the details of your friends'… _suicide_ , if you would like to review them."

Greg frowned and nodded Going along with Sherlock was, usually, the fastest way to resolve a case. Stepping forward, he tried to look calm and in-control. "Mrs. Wolfram, I would like to review the case with you as well. Could we step inside?"

Susan looked doubtfully from Ilia, to Sherlock, to Greg. "Is this man an officer?" She asked, indicating Sherlock.

"No Ma'am, but he does work with the police occasionally, as a consultant." Greg glared at Sherlock as he said the word 'consultant' in a futile attempt to get him to respect _some_ limits.

Susan worried her bottom lip thoughtfully for a moment before nodding and opening the garden gate. "The sooner we can put this whole thing behind us, the better."

They made their way inside. Greg, Sherlock, and John remained standing, while Susan and Ilia sat stiffly on the sofa. Ilia's arm remained securely around Susan's waist, as though this could shield her from their unwelcome visitors.

Sherlock brought his hands together in a prayer like position, his fingertips just brushing his lips, and scanned the room. Then he brought his joined hands away from his mouth and gestured at Ilia as if he were pointing. "Was it you who shot him, or was it _Peter_?"

Ilia was on his feet in an instant. "I did _not_ shoot Peter! He i-was my dearest friend!" He was shouting, inches from Sherlock's face.

Sherlock, smiling in apparent satisfaction, lowered his hands. Ilia had stumbled over the word, "was," there was no mistaking it. There had been the slightest hesitation that he was certain had nothing to do with Ilia's lingering accent. "I did not ask if anyone shot _Peter_. I asked who shot the gentleman we observed in the study last night."

"That _was_ Peter!" Ilia insisted, backing away and throwing his hands into the air. "Have you lost your senses!"

"We might not be able to identify the man who was shot by facial recognition, or dental records, but there is _still_ DNA testing, and now that there is some doubt the police will have to test. The forensic team went through _Peter's_ study with a fine toothed comb, and they collected samples from his toothbrush and hairbrush. They _will_ find out the truth. When they do, Ilia, they will come for you, first."

Ilia's face was scarlet with rage. "This is _nonsense_!" he insisted, hands balled into tight fists at his sides. He whirled on Greg. "What proof does this man have?! Nothing! Peter was my oldest and dearest friend, and I will _not_ see his memory slandered in this way. You have _no right_ to hold his body for _unnecessary_ testing. It will only make things harder for poor Susan. Let her lay her husband to rest!" Such was the force of his conviction and his anger that Ilia was almost panting.

There was silence for a moment and, not for the first time, Greg was caught in an uncomfortable position. Sherlock had been right _too many times_ for them not to test the body's DNA. Given the state of the body it was a justifiable test that would only seem slightly superfluous to his superiors, until the results came back. Still, he did not want to seem callous to the concerns of the family. Ilia looked ready to _hit_ someone, probably Sherlock, and Susan was on the verge of tears.

He was saved from the necessity of a carefully diplomatic response, however, when a low hissing brought their attention to the wood paneling on the left of the fireplace. One section of wall was sliding up, assisted by thick, pale fingers.

Susan covered her mouth with her hands to stifle a pained whimper and Ilia paled considerably, his anger giving way to a palpable grief.

A tall, solidly built man with dark brown eyes and graying brown hair emerged from the wall, straightened, and approached Ilia with outstretched hands. "There was nothing more to be done, my friend," he murmured soothingly, clasping both of Ilia's shoulders. "This deception was only meant to spare pain, not to give it. I cannot let you suffer in my place, you have done too much for me already." Ilia nodded grimly, grasping his friend's shoulders tightly for a moment, before relinquishing him to the outstretched arms of his wife.

"Petia Volkov, I presume?" Sherlock drawled slowly, confident that there would be no last minute escape attempts.

The tall man with graying hair turned slowly, his wife's hand still clasped in his own, and nodded. "Da. Your reputation does you credit, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock smirked, his expression heavy with self-satisfaction. "It was not gained by accident."

"What happens now, Mr. Holmes?" Petia asked with the calm of a man who was resigned to his fate.

"That, Mr. Volkov, depends upon what you have to tell _us_ ," Sherlock replied. "I've been able to deduce much of your story, the important matters as they pertain to this case anyway. If you will fill in the Detective Inspector here, he may be able to assist you."

Petia nodded. "That is fair enough, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps you could start by telling me what you know, and then I will fill in the rest."

Sherlock hardly needed an excuse to show off. "Well," he began, clapping his hands together in front of his face as he had done before. "I knew there had been no suicide by the description of the body and the shotgun alone. No matter how far you had been able to hold the gun away from your face, given the power of the gun, you would still have blown your skull, and everything in it, to pieces. The fact that the head remained, more or less, on the body, indicated a close range shot, with the muzzle approximately three feet away from the face. It couldn't be _you_ then, but who could it be? And why would you use this murder to fake your own death? Clearly you had something to hide, but what?"

Sherlock spun slightly, gesturing to Greg. "Detective Inspector Lestrade informed us that you had no known enemies, that you lived a quiet, retired life. Clearly, given the body, you _did_ have enemies, just not ones that you wanted anyone to know about. What kind of upstanding, well-liked citizen would keep the fact of such dangerous enemies from the police? Only if they knew said enemies were too dangerous to be protected from. So dangerous that, perhaps, the only safe place is _dead_."

Sherlock had begun to pace back and forth across the room as his deductions were revealed. He paused in front of Susan and a slow, cruel smile spread across his lips. "I _had_ been searching this room for more data, anything that would help me fill in the gaps when your wife provided a wealth of important information."

Susan blanched, and took a step back. "I-I never spoke to you!" She insisted. "I never said _anything_! I never even _saw_ you!"

"You didn't speak to _me_ ," Sherlock corrected, "but you _said_ plenty. You were in the hallway, wailing about your husband, and how you needed to see his body, but then you were so _easily_ led away. No one who has ever truly lost a loved one is so easily dissuaded from the body, no matter how gruesome the scene."

Susan's jaw clenched and she began to glare at Sherlock. "I do love my husband!" She insisted angrily.

"Of course you love your husband," Sherlock said irritably, eager to get to the point. "Just look at your wedding ring."

She glanced down, perplexed. "My wedding ring?"

"Yes, yes, it's all right there. Expensive ring, delicate cut, immaculately cleaned and maintained. Despite being over ten years old, it looks to be in mint condition. You can always tell the state of a marriage by someone's wedding ring. Take Lestrade's ring, for example—"

"Sherlock!" Greg protested sharply.

"You were not the only one providing me with information, Mrs. Wolfram. The lack of a wedding ring on your 'husbands' body with your own being in such good condition?" Sherlock shook his head. "It didn't make sense as a suicide or the murder of a cuckolded man."

Petia twisted the ring on his left hand self-consciously. "My wedding ring has never left my hand. I did not think it would matter if I kept it."

"That would have been a bigger clue if not for the impossibility of the injuries to the body, which I've already covered," Sherlock replied, shifting his gaze to the silent older gentleman. "Your companion, Ilia, has done a remarkable job of disguising his accent. So much so, that I only suspected him to be Russian. I could not, however accomplish anything last night with your husband so determined to hide. Without being sure of where he was—I'm assuming he used gloves to enter his little compartment as I saw no fingerprints—I would risk the chance of him escaping while I attempted to force him out of hiding. I surmise that he assumed the idea of a suicide would eliminate the chance of DNA testing. Leveling that threat, in a controlled environment where he would most likely hear me seemed to be the best chance of getting him to reveal himself."

"What does being Russian have to do with any of this?" John asked, perplexed.

Sherlock sighed, exasperated. "John, who else would have a greater reason to flee from enemies they fear cannot be stopped, than a spy. Most likely a defected spy, since most governments do at least a passable job of protecting their own spies. I suspected former KGB, a suspicion that was all but confirmed by Ilia's chilly reception of my warm greeting."

He grinned once more at Ilia, who glowered in return. "For, as I understand it, in Russia it is rude to smile at someone you do not know; considered to be laughing at their expense."

"You are well informed, Mr. Homes," Ilia stated, reluctantly.

"I take it, that your knowledge of the Russian language led you to deduce my name?" Mr. Volkov asked, his expression serious, but not angry.

Sherlock whirled to face him, lifted an elegant eyebrow towards his hairline, and replied, "Da."

"Well, Mr. Holmes," Petia began, "You have most of the story in your hands already. I do not think anything I have to say will surprise you. However, if you and your companions will be kind enough to sit, I will tell you what I can."

They sat and, with one long glance at his wife, Mr. Volkov began his story.

"You are correct in your assumption, Mr. Holmes, that I used to work for KGB. I was good with languages, intelligent, and strong. There was always work for me. I did well and, after some time, was promoted."

Petia paused for a moment, making a steeple his fingers and looking thoughtfully at the floor. "There are, in all countries and organizations, unsavory people. It was my hope, in working for the KGB to protect my own people from this, as much as possible. You can imagine my distress when I found corruption in my own people so close to myself. I worked with many fine officers over the years, good men, but my last commanding officer…was not one of them. The things he asked me to do, Mr. Holmes, I could not stomach." He looked up then, evenly meeting Sherlock's unrelenting gaze he said, "I will not hurt innocent people."

Susan inched closer to her husband, and took his hand once more. Petia looked at her and smiled briefly, before returning to his story. "I knew that disobedience would not end well for me. I was prepared to face the consequences, when another way presented itself."

"You defected to the United Kingdom," Sherlock interjected.

Petia nodded. "I wanted out of government work, and I needed a way out of my country. Your government assisted me in return for information on my more unsavory colleagues." Petia's face was grim. "I know those men are no longer living because of what I said, but I have no guilty conscience."

"I take it not all of them are dead," Sherlock replied, "Or you would not have assassins at your door."

"It was an assassin who came for me the other day," Petia confirmed. "For years I was haunted by the ghosts of my past. Even after I met Susan here, and married her. She knew I had a…difficult past, but she did not know the truth until last night. I was sitting in my study in the dark, trying to ease the pain form a migraine, when I heard the window lift from its sill. I cannot see well in the dark, but there are other ways to know your way around. I jumped to snatch my gun from the fireplace and shot him. By good fortune, I shot him in the face and he went down before he could reach me. He fell by the fireplace, and so it was an easy thing to dress him in one of my suits and place him on the chair, with the gun at his feet. Susan helped me, after I had revealed to her the danger we were in. I did not want to part with my wedding ring," Petia's gaze drifted to his wife for a moment then back to Sherlock. "My marriage means much to me, and I did not think anyone would care about such a trifle."

Sherlock tilted his head with a grim smile. "Trifles are rarely trifles in my line of work."

"More people will be after you, then?" Greg asked, leaning forward in his seat.

"More people than you can imagine, Detective Inspector. Many of my colleagues are dead, but the organizations of my government are vast. They must have been hunting me since my disappearance, and the death of the others. This is why I changed my name and did not do any work which would attract attention. I work at a publishing house, translating their manuscripts. Now that my government knows where I am, this cannot continue. I had hoped that Susan could collect my life insurance and together we could journey to America under new identities, without fear of discovery."

Greg nodded thoughtfully. "I will have to bring this information to my supervisors," he said slowly. "They will need to know the truth, and then we can explore our options."

"My husband won't be jailed, will he?" Susan asked, distraught. "Please, Detective Inspector, he won't survive if you put him in jail."

"I'd like to place you both in protective custody," Greg assured her, "but I need to go through the proper channels."

Abruptly, Sherlock stood and adjusted his coat. "This now falls under your department, Lestrade. I will leave you to it." Without another word he strode out of the room.

John gapped after him, appalled at his lack of empathy. Still, he knew he had to follow. He stood as well, and looked sympathetically and Mr. and Mrs. Wolfram/Volkov. "Good luck to you both," he said quietly. "I hope you are able to put this incident behind you, once and for all."

Susan nodded, blinking back tears. "Thank you."

John nodded at the Detective Inspector, and quickly made his way out of the room. Surprisingly, Sherlock was waiting for him on the curb outside.

"Don't engage in pleasantries," Sherlock chastised him. "They are only a waste of time."

John's expression hardened. "That wasn't part of our agreement," he snapped.

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and hailed a cab.

Once they were on their way to Baker Street, John said, "You were wrong."

Sherlock slowly turned his head to face his blogger. "Again? I seriously doubt it."

"You're always going on and on about how sentiment is useless and even dangerous, but it just helped you solve this case. If that woman didn't love her husband so much, where would you be now? Hm?" John was feeling rather smug about this point.

Sherlock, however, did not look impressed. "It was useful in exposing the truth of this case, but it has still been their downfall."

John frowned. "How do you mean? They can get help now; proper help from the right authorities."

Sherlock's lips curled in a mocking smile and he slowly shook his head. "My brother might have protected that man before, but he just doesn't have any value anymore. All the information that could've been useful was collected a long time ago. Now he's just a liability and not worth the resources it would take to keep him alive."

"It's a human life, Sherlock. _Two_ human lives," John insisted, dumbfounded.

"Yes, and how many more will it take to keep them alive? Hm? The numbers don't add up; not in their favor anyway."

John crossed his arms in front of his chest and looked stubbornly away. He was not going to continue this argument. He'd only known Detective Inspector Lestrade since yesterday, but he seemed like a hardworking, upstanding person. John had faith that he would do his best to protect Mr. and Mrs. Wolfram/Volkov.

* * *

A few relatively quiet days bled into a week, and John was beginning to sympathize with Sherlock about the lack of cases. He had been informed, by Greg, Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock that cases could come hard and fast, even before John's entrance into 221 B, but that did nothing to help him now. An entire week with no one but Sherlock for company was driving him up a wall. If he wasn't experimenting, he was sawing away on his violin, or finding some other way of making John's life miserable. At least he hadn't tried to shoot the wall again.

When John had committed himself to gaining Sherlock's assistance for Harry, no matter the cost, he'd expected a difficult, painful battle. True there had been some exhaustion and there was the potential for physical danger, but it was the silent emotional war Sherlock had declared when they struck their deal that unnerved the ex-army doctor. He was torn between wanting to find compassion for Sherlock, and being brought up short by the sudden and malicious behavior of the world's only consulting detective. The doctor in him wanted to see someone wounded and fix them; the soldier's hackles were raised for battle. If nothing else, this mental tug of war would wear him thin...

His letters from his sister, which continued to arrive at a regular pace, gave him something to hope for, and his new friendship with James was a balm to his emotional turmoil. James was everything Sherlock was not. He was warm, friendly, caring, sympathetic, and rapidly becoming a trusted confidant. They'd kept in touch and had plans to meet again today, at a local pub. John was almost giddy at the thought of a night away from everything.

With that happy thought in mind, John made his way down the steps from the hideout of his bedroom for his afternoon tea. Sherlock was researching something on John's computer. John's eyebrow twitched in irritation but he refused to comment. Sherlock, expert lock pick and the world's only consulting detective, could and would get access to anything he wanted within the confines of 221 B, and almost everywhere else. For Harry and for his sanity, John would grin and bear it.

John had just set the kettle on to boil when Sherlock spoke.

"I've left a little something for you on the table."

John blinked and shook his head, certain that he had misheard. "Come again?" he asked.

Sherlock deigned to look up from whatever it was he was researching, the hint of a smile ghosting over his lips. "I've left you a little something on the kitchen table," he repeated.

John's eyes darted to said table and saw a plate covered with a small dome, presumably to keep its contents warm. He didn't even bother wondering why such an ill stocked kitchen even _had_ such a dome; Sherlock was just a bit of a magpie. John cocked an eyebrow and looked back to Sherlock, still doubtful. "That is for me?"

Sherlock nodded, his smile spreading into a grin. "It arrived just this morning, sooner than I had expected. I'm hoping it can help settle something between us."

John's eyes flickered back and forth between the dome and the world's only consulting detective. Was this...a peace offering? John opening his mouth, then closed it again, unable to force out any words.

"Go on," Sherlock encouraged, impatient now that he had John's attention. He had set John's computer down on the desk and was on his knees, leaning over the back of his chair.

John was still hesitant, but Sherlock's joy was infectious. He crept up on the plate as though afraid it would bite him, and cautiously lifted the lid...

It was a newspaper.

John frowned, and looked up for a moment before scanning the small article that had been circled in red ink.

 _ **Accidental Drowning**_

 _Mr. Peter Wolfram, formerly of London, perished on Saturday April 28th, after falling overboard on a ferry bound for Caen, France. Preliminary reports indicate that his blood-alcohol level was 0.2%. Richard Ferrows, the captain of the ferry that Mr. Wolfram had booked passage on, reported that the waters were unusually choppy for the time of year, and that passengers had been warned to use caution when moving about.._

John tore his eyes away, just catching the final line of the article:

 _Mr. Wolfram is survived by his wife, Susan Wolfram._

Sherlock was staring at him, grinning like a lunatic, his eyes burning with some mad passion John didn't even _want_ to understand. Sickened and betrayed, John fled from the room, Sherlock's callous smile burned into the back of his mind.


	8. The Prima in the Wings

**Thank you to Thilbo4Ever for your review! Thank you also to all who have favorited, and followed my story!**

 **Another cannon case was used as inspiration for the case in this chapter, but it's a rather well-known Sherlock tale, so I don't expect to fool anyone. Still I hope you enjoy this next chapter as it unfolds!**

* * *

Chapter Seven: The Prima in the Wings

"It's so sweet of you to help, dear," Mrs. Hudson cooed as John carefully patted down the dirt around her potted roses.

John glanced up and smiled. "It's no problem, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock received the advice rather unexpectedly on one of his recent cases." He pointedly refused to look up to the windows of their apartment; it would only spoil his good mood. He'd barely been able to _look_ at Sherlock lately. He really was a monster...

"Somehow, I doubt he was really looking for advice on the care of roses," Mrs. Hudson said with a wry smile.

"No," John said flatly, "He was trying to insult someone to prove a point."

Mrs. Hudson chuckled softly, tilting the nose of the watering can towards the soil. It wasn't much water, the roses hardly needed it living in London, but there was a strong plant food mixed in that her roses desperately needed. "I can just imagine."

John stood and wiped his dirty hands on his jeans. "I'm sorry, I have to ask. _What_ do you see in him?" He did turn to the windows now, glaring threateningly.

"Oh, he's not as bad as he seems at first," Mrs. Hudson assured him, placing the watering can on the steps for a moment before straightening to rest a hand on John's arm. "He never lets anyone get that close to him. He must have seen something really special in you, to invite you to move in with him."

John let out a choked, humorless laugh. Mrs. Hudson was still convinced that he was dating her favorite tenant, and he didn't have the strength to argue with her today.

"Just carry on for a little while longer, and I'm certain you'll start to see more of what attracted you to him in the first place." She was so assured in her advice, and only trying to help. John smiled and patted her hand gently.

He'd been inclined to think there was something worthwhile about Sherlock at one point himself, but like Mrs. Hudson, he'd only been kidding himself. It was hard not to admire Sherlock's abounding intellect, or his wry, morbid sense of humor. Unfortunately, it was too morbid. He would laugh at an embarrassed Detective Inspector and a devastated widow woman indiscriminately. Whatever had been good about Sherlock, if there ever _had_ been anything, had left a long time ago.

"I'll manage," John assured his landlady. And he would, too; for Harry's sake. John would do anything for those he truly loved.

It wasn't all bad, though. James continued to be an unexpected and loyal friend, whom John was truly grateful for. When the ex-army doctor had run from the flat, he hadn't planned on running anywhere but _away_. He had shocked himself when he'd ended up near St. Bart's. It had been the end of James's shift and John had nearly run headlong into him.

James had given a little start before smiling in a welcome, if confused way. " _Hey, what brings you out my way?_ " He had glanced around before adding, " _Are you working a case_?"

" _I...um. Sherlock...well..._ " John looked away for a moment and drew a slow, deep breath, trying to gather his wits about him. " _I needed to get away for a bit; I wasn't really watching where I was going_ ," John admitted sheepishly.

James had studied him for a moment before nodding in compassion and understanding. " _I don't mind getting an early start on our night out, but I'd like to go back to my flat to change first. Mind keeping me company?_ "

John had smiled, relieved. James' easy, friendly manner had been such a welcome change of pace that he'd readily agreed. They'd strolled along, talking like old friends as they made their way through London.

In the end, they hadn't gone out to the pub after all. They'd ordered in some curry and ate it out of the cartons, too engrossed in their conversation to bother with plates. John had been stifling yawns for an hour before he could tear himself away from the safe harbor of James's company.

James had wished him a good night and said, " _If you ever need to get away again, you know where to find me._ "

That thought had bolstered John's mood all the way back to 221B.

A strong hand fell on John's shoulder causing him to whirl around quickly. Before the images in front of him had properly resolved themselves into a face, John felt the stranger's windpipe under his palm. Small vibrations buzzed against his palm as the stranger said, "I mean no harm. I am here to request a meeting with Mr. Holmes." He was a tall man with graying hair, a strong, muscular build, and slate gray eyes.

John pulled his hand back sheepishly, grateful that he hadn't managed to strangle the man before he came to his senses. Even so, the man had not even flinched when John's hand had pushed against his throat... This was bound to be an interesting case.

"I'm sorry," John replied, "You caught me a bit off-guard there."

The taller man nodded in understanding. "I should have announced my presence sooner. My apologies. Is Mr. Holmes in?" He had a subtle, earthy accent that John guessed he was trying very hard to disguise.

John looked surely at the windows and said, "Oh he's in alright. I just hope he doesn't cause an explosion before we get upstairs."

The other man raised an eyebrow at this, but made no further comment as John led him up the stairs to 221 B.

"Sherlock!" John called as they entered the living room, "We have a client!"

The world's only consulting detective whirled out of his bedroom followed by an ominous cloud of smoke. Despite John's dubious look, the smoke dissipated rapidly. Sherlock peeled safety goggles off his head and studied the man his blogger had brought with him.

"Mr. Holmes," their client began, "I am a representative of the-"

Sherlock, who'd just finished wiping his soot covered hands on his trousers, flopped lazily into his chair by the fireplace. "I _know_ who you are. No one could mistake the jaw line of your family. Let's skip with the pleasantries, especially since your pride won't allow you to admit who you _really_ are. And yes, your secrets are quite safe with me, _your highness_. I have no interest in politics, only my work."

John gaped briefly, then collected himself and gestured for their guest to seat himself on the sofa. Their client looked equally shell-shocked, but also recovered quickly. After he had seated himself, John likewise sank into the chair beside Sherlock, and tried not to stare. John was aware enough of history to know that noble families in Europe and elsewhere did sometimes hold onto their titles and perhaps even their money, long after their political power was lost. John's knowledge of this extended far enough for him to surmise that the gentleman in front of them was likely not of British nobility, but that was all he would venture, for the moment.

"You're reputation does you credit, Mr. Holmes," Their client said at last. "It is precisely because of the discretion this case requires, that I have come to you."

John almost laughed, then though better of it. While Sherlock was undoubtedly callous to this man's need for discretion, he truly _did not_ care for politics. Nor, as John had seen, did Sherlock care for the lime light. Being right seemed to be all the payment and all the motivation he needed. John would have hardly called Sherlock's pride and arrogance virtues, but in the case of assuring client discretion, they could inadvertently be assets.

Sherlock gestured impatiently, and their guest sent a concerned glance in John's direction. "Would it be possible for us to speak, privately? This is a very delicate matter Mr. Holmes, and your companion already knows more than I had intended to reveal."

"Dr. Watson is a trusted associate," Sherlock said evenly. "Anything you have to say can be said in front of him."

John seriously doubted that Sherlock Holmes _trusted_ anyone. No, John was bought and paid for, and they both knew it. Even so, John had never been the kind of man to break a confidence. He turned to the nobleman and smiled politely. "I've been in practice as a doctor for a number of years, and everything a patient shares has always been confidential. I don't take that responsibility lightly."

The nobleman sat silently for a moment, perhaps locked in a test of wills with Sherlock, or a struggle with his own conscience; maybe both. At last, his need seemed to win out, and he began his story. "You see, when I was very young I was reckless in my own affairs. This recklessness cost me dearly in both money and in reputation. It very nearly cost me my marriage."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pressed his palms tightly against his closed eyes. "You want me to silence an illegitimate child, then?"

The nobleman looked chagrined. "My daughter is not the product of a legitimate marriage, but she has...refined blood on both sides of her family. To the best of my knowledge she was to remain forever unaware of her true heritage. She was adopted out at birth, and that was to be the end of it." He coughed and fidgeted slightly in his seat. "Her mother, however, was a bit more sentimental than prudence should have allowed. When she died, the girl inherited a small sum of money, along with some very telling letters."

Sherlock perked up a bit in his seat, leaning forward.

"Her mother's family would have stopped the release of those letters, only they didn't know about them. Her mother had them placed in a safe deposit box in Switzerland so that, even if her family discovered what she had done, they would have no access to the letters."

"Why now?" Sherlock asked, bringing his hands together in front of his chin and peering critically at their client. "Her mother must have been dead for... five years or so?"

The nobleman blanched, then nodded. "You are a master at your craft, Mr. Holmes," he conceded. "I have only spoken to my daughter when I did not know who she was, so I can only guess her motives." He reached into his pocket then, and placed a brochure for The Royal Ballet on the short table between them. "She has been working as a ballerina for some years now; I believe she wants to be the Prima Ballerina. It is difficult and painful work however. And, unless one is a leading ballerina, one is not always paid so well. My daughter, she is almost past her prime now, for her profession anyways, and her letter leads me to believe she is looking for a little...financial stability."

Sherlock eyed him thoughtfully. "You really did come here to avoid a scandal. The money she wants will hardly break your bank, but the thought of her becoming a leech, and the thought of trying to come out with the truth galls your sense of dignity." He sneered the last word, making it plain that dignity was the last thing he thought his client capable of. "But you still haven't told me how I can help you. Plenty of persons have claimed to be related to nobility over the years, and even the ones that were telling the truth were hardly believed. This threat should be a rumor beneath your notice. Why would _anyone_ take her seriously?"

"She does have her mother's letters," the nobleman repeated firmly.

"Clever forgeries," Sherlock insisted, dismissively.

"...and a DNA test."

"How do you expect me to make a DNA test disappear?!" Sherlock scoffed. "You should have seen my brother for that, not me."

"Please, Mr. Holmes!" The nobleman cried, holding out a hand as Sherlock made to rise from his seat. "The test is not conclusive evidence!"

Sherlock paused, half standing and arched an eyebrow. "Explain, quickly."

"I-I did not know whom adopted my daughter, or anything about her life until recently; I thought it would be better that way. I have always been a great admirer of ballet, and made a point of seeing the Royal Ballet whenever I was in town. The dancers come to speak to me, sometimes, before or after a show. People are always seeking my company because of my ...status."

Sherlock slowly resumed his seat, looking vaguely interested once more.

"I did not know my daughter the first time she spoke with me, but she already knew who I was to her. Many people in the Royal Ballet know that my daughter and I have talked on several occasions, even if they do not know that we are related. One night, as I was leaving, she fetched my coat for me. She claims, in her letter, that she collected some hair and some...used tissues I had in the pockets, and ran a DNA test with them. It is not definitively conclusive," he repeated, "for I could argue that she forged the results of the test as well as the letters, but she has enough proof to cast uncomfortable suspicion upon my person. A suspicion I could not lift by having a formal, observed test, for she _is_ my daughter. Not only was I able to verify her identity by discretely investigating the adoption records, but she sent me a lock of her hair to test for myself."

The nobleman stood suddenly, paced to the windows and looked down on the street as he spoke. "You are right, Mr. Holmes. I have come to you in the hopes that you can help me avoid a scandal." He drew a deep breath before turning to face Sherlock once more. "Will you take my case?"

Sherlock studied the nobleman in silence for a long moment. He stood fluidly, adjusted his suit, and moved to stand beside their guest. His voice was quite and serious as he spoke. "I should have some results for you in a week's time."

The nobleman smiled broadly and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. "Thank you! Thank you, Mr. Holmes. My daughter is-"

"The third girl from the right on the front of the brochure?" Sherlock drawled, unenthused. "I know. You did _not_ come to an amateur, your highness."

The nobleman nodded vigorously. "Yes, yes, I can see that." He reached into his pocket then, and produced a slim white business card, which Sherlock accepted without examining. "Please, call me if you have any news, any news at all."

Sherlock nodded distractedly as their visitor turned to go, wishing John a good day as he headed for the stairs. John watched him go for a moment, lost in thought about all that he had told them, and what he had seen from the world's only consulting detective. For a brief time Sherlock had seemed disgusted that the nobleman's first and only concern appeared to be to save face. John knew he should write that off to Sherlock's arrogance and pathological need to be right, but a part of him couldn't help but wonder if the nobleman's morals had offended Sherlock for any other reason?

John sighed and shook his head at himself. He needed to stop trying make a good man out of a broken one. The war of perspective between Sherlock and himself was something to be survived, not won. He could never make Sherlock see or believe in the good in people, and he certainly wasn't going to succumb to Sherlock's Hobbesian perspective.

"Why didn't you ask for the letters his daughter sent?" he asked, trying to get some perspective on this case. If he was going to write this one up, which he was sure Sherlock would force him do to, he'd have to be very careful with identifying details. Trying to explain how Sherlock did what he did made a better story then any name dropping would do.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, distracted. "Hm? Oh, those aren't important. He already has those, and examining them won't tell us anything we don't already know; nothing of value anyway. No, it's the letters she has that we need to get our hands on."

"And _how_ are we going to do that?" John asked, irritated that he had to pull so hard for details, but Sherlock was always like this when he was on a case. The best John could hope for, was to not be entirely lost.

A cruel smile spread open over the fingers Sherlock still held steepled, close to his face. "Simple. She is going to show us where they are."

John's mouth fell open in disbelief. He needed no convincing that Sherlock was skilled at manipulation, but this was beyond the pale. "Just like that? She's just going to _hand_ us her blackmail material?!"

"Well, we probably will have to snatch it up fairly quickly once she shows it to us, but when we know where it is, it should be child's play."

John pressed his hand firmly into his forehead and prayed for patience. "Is it really so much to ask that you start making sense every now and again?!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he strode towards their front door, snatching his Belstaff from a stand nearby. "If you would only _observe_ half as well as you see, John, this would all make perfect sense to you."

"Right, so we're leaving then?" John asked, tugging his own jacket down, and following close behind his crazy flatmate.

"Naturally. We need to get you a tux."

The good doctor stopped abruptly on the stairs. " _What_?!"

* * *

"I can't believe you're making me _do_ this," John muttered, fussing with the tie that felt like it was trying to choke him.

"Sush, most people enjoy a night at the ballet," Sherlock murmured distractedly, casually surveying the crowd around them. The world's only consulting detective had purchased them both tickets to the Royal Ballet's production of Swan Lake. From what John could gather, Sherlock intended to _observe_ the environment and the people, especially after the performance, when the dancers would mingle with the patrons and sign autographs. The lanky bastard had yet to point out exactly what information he was hoping to obtain, but John hoped it would be useful. Especially considering...

As they began to make there was towards their seat, John tugged on the sleeve of Sherlock's jacket and hissed "Sherlock do you know what this _looks_ like?!" He was only trying to get him to see reason. The rumor mill did _not_ need any help making insinuations about the _exact_ nature of their relationship.

Nonplussed, Sherlock slipped his arm around John's linking them at the elbow. "Have a little decorum, and _try_ to think," he murmured in his bloggers ear as he led them along. "Two people enjoying a performance together are hardly likely to draw as much attention to themselves as someone alone. I want to be invisible in the crowd."

"Glad to know I'm useful for _something_ ," John replied with a small sneer, dearly wishing he could take advantage of their position to elbow the arrogant sod in the ribs.

"Our arrangement is working as planned, is it not?" Sherlock asked, settling a prickly John into his seat before taking his own. "You've been a helpful distraction, and your blog is gaining hits every day."

John pointedly refused to look at his companion as the lights dimmed and the show began. It was beautiful to watch, and a rudimentary knowledge of the plot helped the ex-army doctor distract himself from the terror of a man beside him. It was a sad plot, though, and John struggled with the urge to re-write it in his head. The healing impulses of a doctor did, after all, come naturally to him.

When, at last, the final curtain had fallen, and they were languidly making their way through the crowd, John couldn't help but wonder if Sherlock had purchased tickets for this performance because it was the most convenient, or if he had also considered the plot. It _would_ be just like him to try to throw in some smug and subtle reminder of why love was nothing but a disappointment waiting to happen. He was glowering at Sherlock's shoes when he found them stopping short.

"Ms. Adeline?" Sherlock asked, extending his hand to a regal looking ballerina. She was tall, slender, and pale with dark brown hair elegantly crowning her head. She took Sherlock's hand with great poise. A satisfied smile crept onto her face when Sherlock lifted her fingers briefly to his lips. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I greatly enjoyed your performance."

"Thank you," she murmured, bright white teeth flashing between her dark red lips. "You are very kind."

Sherlock's eyebrow lifted in an accusatory gesture. "The truth is the truth, Ms. Adeline; it is not about kindness."

John, who had moved to stand beside Sherlock, bit back a sharp laugh. Kindness and Sherlock Holmes had nothing to do with one-another.

Ms. Adeline leaned towards the world's only consulting detective, warming to his practiced charm. "I do wish everyone had your perspective, Mr...?"

"Watson," Sherlock supplied readily, causing John to sputter and choke. "Samuel Watson," Sherlock pressed on, drawing John forward with a strong arm around his waist. "And this is my companion, John Watson."

John watched the ballerina's eyes flit curiously over their left hands and swore to himself that he'd poison Sherlock's tea for this.

Sherlock simply smiled enigmatically, locking John in a vice-grip every time he tried to inch away. "Would you do us the favor of signing our programs?" Sherlock asked, holding the folded papers and a ball point pen out to Ms. Adeline.

"Certainly," she agreed, moving the pen across the paper with a great flourish.

A flash caught Sherlock's eye, and he noticed a thin, very plain looking woman tap Ms. Adeline on the shoulder. She was obviously an assistant or secretary of some kind. It was her wedding band that had caught the light as she lifted her hand. It was as plain as she was, but it glimmered strongly in the light of the room. Someone was satisfied with their marriage, for now anyway. Given her lack of all other jewelry and well-kept but second hand clothing, it wouldn't last . Marriages with financial strain never did.

Ms. Adeline leaned towards her assistant, who whispered something to her. She nodded, then straightened once more, returning the programs to Sherlock. "My apologies. It appears I'm needed elsewhere."

Sherlock nodded graciously. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Adeline." She smiled, waved once, then was gone.

As soon as Sherlock released him, John sprang free, rubbing the abused ribs that had suffered the brunt of Sherlock's restraining grip. "Was that _really_ necessary?" He hissed, still mindful of keeping his voice low. He was hardly about to ruin Sherlock's plan when the foundations of it had been so irritating to put in place.

"Hm? Of course," Sherlock replied, his eyes sweeping the signature he had obtained from the ballerina. "See the hesitation marks here?" he gestured to the space between the "d" and the "e" of Ms. Adeline's autograph. "She's not used to writing her name that way. It's a stage name of some kind that obviously closely resembles her true name. Possibly an anagram, or an imperfect anagram. No one has proper respect for ciphers anymore."

John rolled his eyes and muttered, "You're _really_ weird, you know that?"

"Thank you," Sherlock replied distractedly, still perusing their programs.

"That _wasn't_ a compliment!" John insisted. His words, however, fell on deaf ears. Sherlock had straightened, stowed their programs in his suit jacket, and was striding rapidly for the exit. Whatever information he'd come here to obtain, had apparently been gathered. Resigning himself to his fate, John followed after him.

* * *

"No."

"John, this is non-negotiable."

" _No_ , Sherlock. I agreed to be your blogger and assistant. I certainly did not agree to be paraded around as your boyfriend, _nor_ did I agree to help you _break the law_!"

Sherlock's expression hardened dangerously. For the last half hour he'd been fruitlessly attempting to convince John to assist in his plan to uncover the hiding place of Ms. Adeline's evidence. It was a simple principle, really. Convince someone that their environment is unsafe and they will collect anything truly precious to them from that environment before fleeing. Ms. Adeline had hidden the evidence of her lineage in a place her father, and those who worked for him, could not find it. It couldn't be in her home, that was too easily accessible. It _must_ be hidden at the ballet theater; the only other place Ms. Adeline was truly invested in.

 _All_ he wanted John to do was place a small tracking device on her person, under the guise of tripping into her. Sherlock would make it easy for him by planting and then detonating some rather convincing smoke bombs. Those bombs would then set off the fire alarms, and the building would be evacuated. It would be the most natural thing in the world for John to "accidently" jostle Ms. Adeline during the evacuation.

Ms. Adaline would evacuate as well, but only _after_ saving her precious blackmail material. He would use the tracking device to follow her at a discreet distance, observe her hiding place, then disappear into the crowd. Once he knew her hiding place, he would be able to collect the materials in question at his relative leisure.

He was more than capable of placing the tracking device himself; this argument was more a contest of wills than anything else. That fool with all his _feelings_ needed to know his place. Everything would turn out as Sherlock had said it would, things always did. Harriet would relapse, John would become embittered, and Sherlock would close a trap around the greatest criminal master mind in the country...once he had more evidence...and then he would die...

Drawing himself up to his full height, Sherlock glared menacingly at his blogger. "There _are_ other ways to go about this, John, but if we do things _my way_ no one will be injured."

John stiffened, sucking in an angry breath. Sherlock could see the good doctor considering what he thought Sherlock might be capable of. He had made it very plain to the ex-army doctor that he did not lose sleep over collateral damage so long as it did not harm the outcome of his cases; something that infuriated the kindhearted fool. Sherlock knew himself to be a skilled actor and master of disguise. If he didn't want to be recognized while placing his tracking device on Ms. Adeline, then he wouldn't be. No this was not an argument about convenience, this was about bringing John to heel.

Sherlock could see the shorter man's jaw clench at that realization. He fought a smirk as he observed that if John clenched his jaw any tighter, he'd risk chipping a tooth. John certainly didn't want to give any ground in this moral argument, but neither was he willing to needlessly endanger the lives of others to prove a point. Pity, that.

"Fine," John barked, "Give me the God damned tracker."

Sherlock smirked victoriously and dropped a small round dot into John's open palm.

"You're going to catch her coming into the building," Sherlock drawled in his deep baritone. "She won't be changed for dancing before the smoke bombs detonate, so slipping this into her pocket should be more than sufficient."

John nodded and strode towards the door. Sherlock slipped on his long Belstaff and followed.

* * *

The instant the fire alarms rang out, Sherlock began to move, tracing the movements of the little red dot on the screen of his phone. Mycroft would be cross that Sherlock had stolen some of his new toys, but that was tomorrows' problem. Ms. Adeline was rapidly heading back stage. He paused in a small alcove, letting the throngs of people rush past him to calculate the quickest way to outmaneuver her. He spent the night memorizing blueprints of the theater, and so the route was easy to plot. Pocketing his phone, he took off at a sprint. After a few hastily picked locks he was in the corridor beside the stage, surrounded by long black curtains. It was highly improbable that Adeline would come directly past him, given the route she'd begun, and even if she did there was no shortage of cover. He would never be noticed.

Drawing the curtains tightly around himself, Sherlock pressed back into the curtains and peeked out of the sliver of space he's left for himself. Not thirty seconds later the would-be-Prima rushed backstage and scrabbled furiously at a slim crack in the plaster of the wall. Said crack must have actually been a small hole with a catch, because a section of the wall opened like a cabinet and a tightly wrapped package was hastily retrieved. Sherlock watched Ms. Adeline scurry off with it before edging his way back out into the hall. Nothing more needed to be done today.

* * *

John was sitting, rather uncomfortably, across from their nobleman client. They were sitting in the window of a small bistro across the street from the ballet theater, waiting for Sherlock to return with the blackmail material.

After the incident with the smoke bombs, Sherlock had dragged an incredibly indignant John back to 221 B, and waited a week before contacting their client to schedule a meeting. Sherlock claimed he had waited in order to create a false sense of security. It seemed like a sound tactic for his goals, but the entire case still put John on edge.

Firstly, he wasn't exactly sure which side he was on. Obviously he was forced to work for Sherlock, but, having been so poor himself for so long, he could understand the lure of financial security...look what that same lure had driven him to do.

On the other hand, he had gotten a small thrill out of slipping the tracking device into Ms. Adeline's pocket. It had probably been a small fraction of what Sherlock himself felt as a case drew to a close and, once again, John found himself caught up in the excitement. Enjoying things like that made him uneasy, because everything felt like a slippery slope around his crazy flatmate, as though one wrong step would bring all of Sherlock's terrible predictions to bear.

"I am not a heartless man," the nobleman assured him, reading John's disquiet in his posture and frequent glances towards the theater. "I _will_ give my daughter some money, once this is all over. I want her to be comfortable, now that I know who she is, but it is also important to avoid the scandal she is so ready to cause." He shrugged and stared wistfully out the window. "I can hardly blame her for being reckless, considering the circumstances she was conceived under."

John wished he could believe their client. Where were all these 'kind' instincts when his daughter was born? How could he actually care about her when he'd spent so much of her life in willful ignorance of her fate? And why was his old relationship such a scandal anyway? All he'd done was _cared_ about someone, maybe even loved them.

Caring had always been such a central part of John's existence; it was no surprise to learn that he was disgusted by those who shied away from affection as though the very notion were unclean. Then again, perhaps living with Sherlock had begun to make him paranoid. The great git played mind games at every opportunity, leveraging his nihilistic perspective.

Movement caught his eye, and John lifted his head to watch Sherlock making his way across the street. His long, Belstaff coat hid the repairman disguise he wore beneath it. The good doctor had to admit that it was a well thought out scheme. As Sherlock had explained before they left that morning, ' _Repairmen are just part of the scenery_.'

John hated that he found Sherlock's intellect so appealing. If only he wasn't always such a beast...

Sherlock strode into the bistro and neatly took his seat at their table. He looked pale, even more so than normal, and John stiffened in his seat, wondering if his flatmate had been followed or attacked while he went to retrieve the blackmail material.

The world's only consulting detective straightened his spine, folded his hands neatly on the table in front of him and said, "Pay her."

"What?!" the nobleman blustered.

"Pay her," Sherlock repeated. "You're daughter is more cunning than I had reckoned for. She has changed her hiding place and will now, after being jolted in this manner, likely have some _insurance_ set up on the letters and the genetic testing."

"You mean you _can't_ best her?" the nobleman asked indignant.

"There's hardly much need to try again; I heard the director talking about promoting her to Prima Ballerina within a few months time, once they start their next season."

"I seriously doubt," the nobleman began, impetuous, "that he was very free with that kind of information."

"Naturally, but I was 'sweeping' the floor outside his office, and I have good hearing. Anyway, after the promotion she'll have what she wants, and you can rest safe."

"I can _hardly_ be at ease with those letters out there?!" their client hissed, standing. "This is unacceptable, Mr. Holmes!"

Sherlock stared at him evenly. "Then report me."

The nobleman strode off in a huff, muttering about incompetence and disappointments.

John frowned worriedly at his flatmate. He hadn't even turned his head to watch their client leave. That, in and of itself wasn't particularly concerning, because Sherlock paid only the barest minimum of attention to societal norms. Still, John had only ever seen him be wrong once before, when he had lost his bet. And he _was_ paler than usual. There was more to this than he'd let on.

"What's wrong?" John asked, leaning forward to try to make eye contact.

Sherlock stared resolutely ahead and did not reply. He was concentrating on the weight of the _syringe_ in his jacket pocket. That was what he had found in Ms. Adeline's hiding place. It was empty, but the message was jarring. Was this some veiled reference to his cursed poisoning? How? Molly had worked alone; there was no evidence to the contrary. Stranger still, as he had turned the syringe around in his fingers, examining it, his phone had rung. He'd snatched at it in a hurried attempt to silence it, and stopped cold when he saw the name on the phone.

Ms. Adeline hadn't been in his contacts this morning, but apparently she was now. Silently he'd answered the call and pressed the phone to his ear. He heard only this, before the caller hung up: " _Goodnight, Mr. Holmes. Play again next time._ "

The voice on the other end of the phone was sultry and smug, and nothing at all like Ms. Adeline's' voice. There was more to this than simple blackmail, and he would get to the bottom of it.

"Sherlock?" John tried again, leaning into his flatmate's field of vision. When this produced no result he stretched his hand forward to grasp Sherlock's shoulder. A deep baritone halted his fingers millimeters before they made contact.

"Not now, John, I'm thinking."

John stiffened, and slowly drew his arm away. He was silent for a long moment, studying the creases at the edges of Sherlock's eyes and lips, taking in his posture and the message it sent. He'd always thought of Sherlock's slouches as lazy, but now, he wasn't so convinced. "The only person your fooling, Sherlock, is yourself."

Sherlock huffed a put upon sigh, not even bothering to turn his head. "I've never put on any pretence. Are you finished being tedious?" Sherlock crossed his arms, subtly fingering the hidden syringe. "Some of us have _real_ work to do."

John stood sharply, rattling his chair and pulling his coat on violently. "If you really loved your work, and only your work, as much as you say you do, then you wouldn't be so miserable!" John hissed.

Sherlock still did not even deign to meet John's eyes. "Bring back some bagels from the King Street Deli. You always stop there when you're going to see your boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend!" John hissed, shoving his hands in his pockets as he whirled to go. "And you never have an appetite anyway!" The door of the cafe rattled in its frame in the wake of John's wrath and the remaining patrons nervously looked anywhere but at Sherlock.

The world's only consulting detective chuckled darkly. John was right, even if he could not observe the truth in what he saw. Sherlock had long experience subverting the needs of his transport for the sake of his mind and his cases. In the case of hunger, this was no longer necessary... the poison was getting stronger...he was running out of time.


	9. Caring Is Not An Advantage

**Thank you Thilbo4Ever for your review! Thank you also to everyone who has left reviews, favorited, and/or followed this story! I can't tell you how much your support means to me. ^_^**

 **As always, the case in this chapter is based on a cannon Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Sherlock story, feel free to guess which one!**

* * *

Chapter Eight: Caring Is Not An Advantage

John stretched languidly, wriggled his toes, and yawned. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept so deeply. Her ran a hand over his face and fought the urge to grin. He needed to spend the night away from Sherlock more often.

For Harry's sake, and the potential wrath such an action could invoke from his 'employer', John hadn't actually turned off his phone, just everything but that. He hadn't returned to 221B after leaving Sherlock in the cafe across from the theater. Instead he'd picked up his mail from his PO box (He had picked one up after his first few letters had arrived, because he like to maintain the illusion of privacy, especially when it came to his sister's letters, regardless of his certainty that nothing in 221 B escaped Sherlock's thorough inspection) and called James.

James had just been getting off-shift at the time, and John had invited him out to a local pub. The morgue assistant had accepted with a warmth that soothed the ex-army doctor's temper. The welcoming smile that greeted John when he arrived loosened the tension that had been sitting like a steel band around his heart.

He hadn't wanted to talk about Sherlock, or anything even remotely pertaining to Sherlock, and James seemed to understand that. They talked about the game on at the bar, about medicine, and about their respective pasts. John had been pleased to learn that, despite both their mild mannered appearances, they had each seen their share of trouble and/or danger.

After watching John nurse his last half pint for over an hour, James leaned in close and said, "You know, if you really need some time away, I don't mind offering up my couch. I'd offer a guest room, if my flat was big enough."

John grinned sheepishly into his pint, at once embarrassed and relived to have been caught stalling. Being the responsible one, the strong one, had never been easy, and a night away from his own personal hell sounded so very appealing. "You're couch would be brilliant," John replied.

They'd stayed up late talking and watching crap reruns on the telly, laughing at stilted dialogue and over-acting. It was a welcome change of pace from Sherlock's bitter vitriol, picking apart the poorly conceived plots as if they were personally offensive.

"There's the smile I've come to know and love," James drawled, sauntering into the room with two steaming mugs.

John sat up, making space for his host on the sofa, and gratefully accepting a mug of tea. "hmm, this is perfect."

James chuckled as he sat beside John. "I'm more than just a pretty face, you know; I pay attention."

John drew the mug away from his lips and smiled again. "Thank you."

An answering smile curled on James's lips. "You're welcome."

They sat in companionable silence for several long moments before James spoke again. "Do you really have to go back? Every time I see you you're wound tighter than a drum."

John sighed softly and looked into the swirling depths of his tea. "Yes. I made a promise to my sister, I intend to keep it."

"You're a good big brother," James murmured, leaning back against the sofa.

"I try," John replied, dismissively. He was the younger brother, actually, but he was often mistaken for being older, since he was always taking care of Harry.

"And humble, too." James took a long pull from his tea before continuing. "I was thinking of moving closer to St. Bart's; I'd be happy to take you on as a flatmate."

"My schedule's so crazy when we're on a case, it just makes more sense to stay with Sherlock," John insisted.

"And you fight your own battles," James mused.

"That too," John agreed with a smile, grateful that James seemed to understand.

James smiled back and let his hand come to rest on John's knee. "Well, keep me in mind once this whole mess is over with. My offer still stands."

John nodded, thankful for the other man's patience and kindness. When everything was all said and done... he'd consider it. He still had Harry to think about, after all. Reaching forward, he set his mug down on the coffee table. The gesture upset his jacket, which he'd hung over the corner of the sofa, causing the pictures his sister had sent him to spill from the envelope of her letter, and onto the floor. John scrambled to pick them up.

He was just peering under the coffee table for any strays when James said, "These are beautiful." John looked up and found James gazing at one of his sister's pictures; they were all of her rose garden. "Did your sister grow these?"

John paused. He hadn't really talked about his sister much. He'd mentioned to James that he was helping his sister, but he'd felt too protective to give more details as of yet.

"How did you know?"

James held out Harriet's letter, which had apparently also fallen out of his jacket pocket. "I caught a glimpse of her signature before I picked it up."

John winced at his own carelessness. He really should have returned home with the letters, or just called and asked James out in the first place, but he couldn't tolerate any more time with Sherlock just then. That, and his sister's good news had made him feel like reaching out for some happiness of his own. As he took the letter from James, their finger's brushed, and he looked down at his sister's note once more. She'd written:

 _Dear Johnny,_

 _You won't believe how well my roses are doing! They are_ _ **finally**_ _rid of the virus! I thought it was going to last forever, but all of a sudden, bamn! No more black spots, no rotting, nothing! I know my roses aren't me, but it still feels like I've turned a corner. Things were miserable and difficult, but I_ _stayed_ _, and now things are better._

 _I know things won't always be peachy either, but right now it's enough to know they won't always be_ _ **bad**_ _. For the first time in a long time... I'm almost hopeful about the future._

 _I promise I'll write more soon, but I wanted to send you the pictures now._

 _I love you to pieces, Johnny. Thank you for everything you've done for me, really. I don't feel like I deserve it most of the time, but I'm working on that too._

 _\- Your wayward sister,_

 _Harry_

A gentle shake finally broke him out of his reverie. "John?"

John glanced up into James's concerned brown eyes. "I'm sorry," James continued. "It's not really any of my business."

"It's fine," John insisted, pocketing his sister's letter. "My fault for not stopping off home first."

"I can't blame you after Sherlock just brushed you off like that. He sounds like a real beast when he's mad.

John chuckled. "If only I could get someone to put a muzzle on him."

"Oh, I'm sure someone will, one of these days," James reassured him with an airy smile. Then, he glanced down at the picture he still held of Harry's roses. "These really are beautiful," he commented, handing the glossy print back to the ex-army doctor.

"Thank you," John replied with a small grin. He was proud of his sister. "They were giving her a hell of a time for a while, some sort of virus that made them turn brown and rot."

James winced in sympathy. "I don't know much about roses, but I've heard they're very temperamental."

John nodded, thinking of the help he'd given Mrs. Hudson with her own roses. "They can be, but not nearly as temperamental as the world's only consulting detective." They shared a glance, then both began to chuckle.

The sharp trill of John's text alert shattered their peaceful interlude. John sighed and picked up his phone.

 _Case. - SH_

"Duty calls," John muttered, holding up his phone with a chagrined look.

James smiled sympathetically. "Go on then. If you ever need another night away, you know where to find me."

John nodded, pulled on his jacket, and with a wave to his gracious host, he was gone.

* * *

Sherlock was waiting for him, lounging in his usual chair by the fireplace. "Ah, John, at last. While you were gallivanting around town with you secret lover, Mr. Miller, here could hardly shut up about his own."

John growled softly in frustration and spat, "James isn't my lover, Sherlock!" He knew he was only giving Sherlock what he wanted, but it was 9:00am, and he was already out of patience.

"She's, um, she's not actually my lover either," came a soft voice from the sofa where clients usually sat. "Secret or otherwise."

John stiffened, then turned to face a middle aged man of average build, and slightly balding chestnut hair. "I apologize, on my own behalf and on behalf of my idiot flatmate," John murmured, leaning forward to shake their client's hand.

The edges of the man's lips curled upwards as if he wanted to laugh, but then he glanced at Sherlock, and thought better of it. "It's not a problem. I've heard that Mr. Holmes is the best, and that's all I care about. My name's Arnold Miller."

"John," the good doctor said with a friendly smile, and sat down.

Mr. Miller glanced first at Sherlock, then at John, then back at Sherlock. He smoothed down his thinning hair, then looked back at John with worried grey eyes. "Mr. Holmes spoke very highly of you as his associate, Dr. Watson. He said we couldn't begin until you were here." He looked down, then back up at John.

John smiled his professional doctor smile, trying to put the man at ease. One of them had to be professional, and Sherlock wasn't about to start any time this millennium. In his heart of hearts, John knew that Sherlock had only waited so as not to miss an opportunity to needle him, to score another point in their war of perspective. "All of our cases are held in the strictest confidence, Mr. Miller, I assure you. And Sherlock here will stop at nothing to get to the truth."

Mr. Miller returned John's smile, seeming reassured. Sherlock continued to lounge in his chair with his head lolled back as though he were badly hangover. "You're case, Mr. Miller," he prompted.

"Right," their client began, leaning forward in his chair and eyeing them both in an eager, desperate manner. "A dear friend of mine, Anna Reynolds, has gone missing. I haven't seen her in almost three weeks."

"Why haven't you taken this to the Yard?" John asked, alarmed. This seemed more straightforward than many of their previous cases.

Mr. Miller rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. "I..I tried that after the first week." He looked down again, no longer able to meet John's eyes. "They didn't believe me."

"How could they _not_ believe you?" John asked, dumbfounded.

Mr. Miller took a breath, then made himself look up once more. "Look, you have to understand, Anna's never really been anyone of consequence. She's not famous, she's never really been in the paper, and she likes her privacy. She is, however, quite wealthy. Her parents were fairly well-off, and after they were killed in a car accident her first year at University, she began investing their money. Her investments did well, and she worked hard over the years to be able to bolster their size. She hasn't worked, and hasn't needed to work for a few years now, although she maintains her investments, and continues to grow her fortune. Now, I think that liability had finally caught up with her."

"Liability?" John asked, only mildly distracted by the fact that Sherlock looked like he might start to snore at any moment.

"Well, yeah. She's quiet about it, but she's got enough money to turn heads if anyone knew about it. I've always told her to be careful, but she's never really felt the need to take on security or anything. She always said she lived so quietly, and was so careful about who she trusted that she thought it would never be an issue." Mr. Miller dropped his head into his hands and sighed loudly.

"And you think she's gone missing now, because of her money?" John prompted.

"Yes!" Mr. Miller cried, gesturing wildly. "That's exactly it! Only, nobody can see it but me!"

"When did you begin to suspect she was in danger?" John asked, trying to get the pieces of this story to string together.

"A few weeks ago," Mr. Miller said miserably. "She started meeting with these computer programmers who were trying to get her to back their project. They told her that they were working on making technology more accessible in third world countries for schools and water purification and things... Anna's always had a big heart, so the project really thrilled her..." He smiled ruefully for a moment before sobering. "I became suspicious when the meetings starting bleeding into her evenings and weekends. It's not uncommon for Anna to make new friends this way, but something just didn't feel right. She was harder and harder to get hold of, which isn't normal. We've known each other since primary school; we've been best friends for years, but now..."

"Now she won't return your calls anymore," Sherlock mused idly.

"Exactly, Mr. Holmes!" Mr. Miller burst out, exasperated. "I'm her best friend, and she's mine. There's _no way_ she'd just stop taking my calls like that. No way."

Sherlock stretched and shifted in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees and pressing his hands together in front of his face. John had long ago inwardly dubbed this Sherlock's "Thinking pose."

The room fell silent for a few long moments before Sherlock spoke again. "The police do not believe you because she's not missing."

Mr. Miller jumped to his feet, unable to keep still any longer. "But she _is_!" He insisted. "That _woman_ they have parading around looks a bit like her, but she is _not_ Anna!"

Sherlock allowed Mr. Miller's aggravating breathing to fill the room, a small, mockingly sympathetic smile on his face. "How do you know?"

Mr. Miller's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I've seen this _actress_ up close, just once. At first I thought Anna was being blackmailed or something, that maybe she was trying to keep away from me to protect me. The Yard wouldn't believe me, so I followed her, waited outside her house, _anything_ I could think of to get through to her. I caught her one day, just after she'd gone to speak to the Yard."

His lip curled in disgust. "I found out later that this _charlatan_ had taken out a restraining order in Anna's name against me." He shook his head, reigning in his focus. "I stormed up just as she was leaving; there was enough of a crowd out that she didn't quite see me until I was right up next to her." He jutted out his chin defiantly, his eyes hardening. "Anna had chicken pox when she was three, like most kids, and since then she's had a small round scar in the hollow of her right cheek. _That_ woman had no such mark. She's not _my_ Anna!"

Sherlock stood then, stepping forward with his hands still in his thinking position, until he was directly in front of Mr. Miller. " _Your_ Anna?" He arched a sardonic eyebrow. "I thought you were not...involved with her."

Mr. Miller flushed, but refused to give ground. "I already told you, we're best friends."

"hmm. And that's the real problem isn't it? _Friends_." Sherlock spat the word as if it were unclean. "It's painfully obvious that you harbor more than friendly feelings for ' _your'_ Anna. You've just confessed to stalking and harassing this poor woman." Sherlock tipped his joined hands forwards towards his would-be client. "Don't you think that it's _slightly_ more plausible that Anna sought to distance herself from your overzealous affections?"

Mr. Miller's face reddened and hardened at the same time, becoming all menacing, twisted angles. "Sod this," he spat. "You're worse than the sodding Yard!"

"They _are_ right occasionally," Sherlock conceded with false graciousness.

Mr. Miller clenched his jaw so tightly John was certain he would break a tooth, then he spat in Sherlock's face.

It was John's turn to stand now. As much as Sherlock may have wholly deserved this animosity, John wasn't about to let it come to blows without taking action. Thankfully, once he had spat in Sherlock's face, Mr. Miller turned sharply, and stomped out of their flat. John watched him go until he heard the front door slam violently.

Turning, he found Sherlock wiping his face and grinning like an idiot. Before the good doctor could speak Sherlock jumped in place, shouting like an over-excited child. "This is the best case I've seen in months!" he declared exuberantly.

Confusion threatened to overwhelm John's senses. "So... we're taking the case?"

"Of course we're taking the case!" Sherlock cried, gesturing wildly with his hands, his eyes darting around the room as if he couldn't assimilate data fast enough.

"Then why did you send that poor man away?!" John asked, crossing his arms indignantly

Sherlock scoffed, waving one hand dismissively towards the street. "That poor sap is in _love_ with her. Desperately so. He only would have gotten in the way. No, he's done his job, and now it's time for me to start doing mine."

John bristled at Sherlock's utter lack of compassion, but he reigned in his temper. If this Anna was really in trouble, then the only way Mr. Miller might ever see her again was through Sherlock's efforts. He _hated_ the methods sometimes, but John would be damned if he let it cost someone the love of their life. The irony of his situation, and Sherlock's sudden smug satisfaction, was not lost on him, however.

Sherlock seated himself haughtily in his chair, helped himself to John's laptop and began furiously typing. "Go make some tea or something; your just distracting me now."

"Right," John ground out, forcing himself to walk to his upstairs bedroom with the appearance of relative calmness. He was _not_ about to make tea for that bastard.

* * *

" _What_ are we doing here, Sherlock?!" John hissed, bristling as his insane, arrogant, manipulative flatmate took his arm and, with practiced grace, and dragged him after their waiter.

"Once again my dear blogger, you see, but you do not observe," Sherlock murmured in his ear, his grip on John's arm tightening dangerously. "As part of a couple, especially a homosexual one, I do not look suspicious, or threatening."

John snorted derisively. "Right, you wouldn't harm a mouse," He sucked in a breath when Sherlock's grip tightened once more. If he didn't start acting his part, Sherlock might just try to snap his arm off.

"Here you are, sirs," the waiter said quietly, gesturing to a small table for two adjacent to one of the floor to ceiling windows.

Sherlock plastered on a dazzling smile, and pulled out John's chair for him. John managed a pleasant smile, which widened as he deliberately stepped on Sherlock's toes. "Thank you," he murmured, his smile shifting to a smirk as he tipped his head over his shoulder to look at his 'date'.

Sherlock's face didn't betray the slightest twitch. If anything, mirth seemed to be dancing behind his eyes as he pushed John's chair in for him. John bit back a sigh. He shouldn't have sunk to Sherlock's level, but the man was beyond infuriating.

The world's only consulting detective waived away the menus which the waiter was offering. "We'll split the seared scallops to start. Then for entrées, I will have Salmon with wild greens, and my date will have the mushroom and asparagus risotto."

John's eyebrow arched towards his hairline as the waiter complimented Sherlock's taste and turned away. "Come here often?"

Sherlock's glare was very subtle, but John had lived with him long enough to call the younger man out for just thinking about being unpleasant. Sherlock's voice, however, was warm and open as he gushed, "You'll love the scallops here; the chef focuses on the basics, no hiding behind fancy sauces, just the natural flavor of the shellfish." He was the picture of joviality. He even nodded to the party being seated at the larger round not far from them, just under one of the room's massive chandeliers.

John's eyebrow twitched at Sherlock's flawless act. It just wasn't right. Someone so bitter and twisted shouldn't also be so brilliant about everything. So far, John had only seen Sherlock use his gifted mind to resolve cases and, even if he didn't quite intend it, stop trouble. What would London, or the world at large be in store for if he ever decided to _cause_ trouble. The thought was chilling, and John reached for his water glass just to have something to do.

"Did you know that the chef hand picks the mushrooms for his risotto from his personal garden?" Sherlock asked, casually draping a hand over John's free one. John's hand twitched in rebellion, and he tried to disguise the movement by turning it over to press his palm to Sherlock's. He wanted to pull away, but his flatmate's grip tightened once more, and he felt the bite of trimmed nails in his flesh.

Whatever the plan was, and with Sherlock there was _always_ a plan, John wasn't to be privy to it just yet. He was lucky Sherlock had given him enough warning about their dinner to put on a nice suit. John suspected that, walking into such an extravagant restaurant in a sweater wouldn't have thrown off his precious plan, he might have let John do so, for the sole purpose of savoring his embarrassment.

"I'm sure it will be delicious," John replied, trying to pretend that at least some of this was normal. Would Sherlock actually eat? John so rarely witnessed the act. Then again this was an elegant restaurant, and not eating _would_ attract attention. Couldn't have that, not if he was trying to seem harmless and normal.

"I guarantee it," Sherlock assured him, stroking his thumb along the back of John's hand. "Chef Mattingly never disappoints."

John nodded, reading between the lines. _This might be the last chance you have to eat for a while; you'd better do so._ He squeezed Sherlock's hand in a silent plea for him to _let go_. "I'll make sure not to overindulge then. Something tells me it's going to be a long...energetic night."

The ex-army doctor was past hoping he could embarrass his flatmate, but Sherlock only chuckled, _finally_ letting go of his hand.

The waiter returned and placed a plate of nicely seared scallops on the table between them. "So, how was your day?" John asked, picking up his knife and fork.

Sherlock shrugged, twirling his water glass. "I did a little research on the computer. Nothing too interesting."

John frowned as he cut into the scallop. With Sherlock _research_ usually meant _hacking_. "Nothing we need to be ashamed to have on our browser history, I hope," John said, biting into the first scallop. The bastard was right, as usual; the food was perfect.

Sherlock shook his head and fixed John with an expressed that looked fond, but was probably patronizing. "No need to worry, love." John knew Sherlock was careful enough not to get caught. He also knew that his brilliant flatmate might just decide to leave a trail anyway, if the confiscation of John's computer wouldn't also inconvenience him. John wished that Sherlock couldn't get under his skin so easily, especially since it was so hard to return his countless jabs.

Struck by sudden inspiration, John pierced the second half of the scallop he had cut with his fork and lifted it to the edge of Sherlock's cupids bow lips.

The world's only consulting detective arched a sardonic eyebrow, but the good doctor knew he _finally_ had him cornered. "Go on," he murmured, mirth twinkling in his warm blue eyes. "Don't want them to get cold, do you?"

Sherlock's eye twitched slightly, but he did lean forward and accept the proffered food. John grinned shamelessly, quite pleased with himself.

By the end of dinner, John's joy had fizzled into frustrated confusion. He still didn't know what the plan was- _damn his flatmate_ -and he wasn't sure how much longer he could tolerate this... _act_. It wasn't that he hadn't seen Sherlock's duplicity before, that man could make you believe anything when he turned his mind to it. Several times, in fact, he'd accosted John while wearing a disguise so brilliant that the ex-army doctor hadn't even recognized him, and Sherlock had a face that was very difficult to forget.

John had expected the cutesy, slightly over-done lovers act would continue the rest of the night, or as long as Sherlock found it useful. Instead, the world's only consulting detective had demurred somewhat. He hadn't sunk entirely into himself, as he was wont to do during the listless, case-less days around the flat, but he wasn't exactly putting on a show anymore. He almost seemed normal. Well, as normal as Sherlock could be, anyway. There were no biting remarks, no subtle calls for attention, and no flawless picking apart of the secrets of everyone in the room. The conversation was easy, casual, and almost pleasant. John hated himself for being dissatisfied with it. He'd clearly spent too much time with this man if Sherlock's pattern of conversation had _grown_ on John. One should not wish one's blatantly fake date would embarrass and shock the helpless patrons of an upscale restaurant; it wasn't funny...it _wasn't._ But what could he do? Harry had only just started the long journey ahead of her, and John had to stay for as long as was needed.

A sudden strong grip on his arm, tugging him up and out of his seat, broke John's reverie. "Keep up, John."

"Right," John nodded, hurriedly following the world's only consulting detective.

Instead of waiting for the attendant to retrieve their coats, Sherlock reached his long arms into the coat check and snatched his Belstaff and John's jacket before the attendant could protest. John glowered as he shrugged into the garment. "Did we even bother to pay?" He hissed as he jogged to keep up, "Or did we run out on the tab?"

Sherlock wouldn't even looked at him as he answered, his head was lifted and his eyes were scanning the street while his stride gobbled up the pavement. "I left some notes on the table; it would be highly inconvenient if they sent the Yard after us. Lestrade doesn't need the exercise that badly...yet"

"Right, and I get stuck with the bill whenever it's convenient for you?" John groused.

Sherlock shrugged. "Tedious details are for lesser minds."

John huffed indignantly, trying to keep pace with his flatmate without looking like he was running him down. Sherlock led them through a twisting labyrinth of streets, turning and sometimes even doubling back without any seeming rhyme or reason. They'd walked for almost an hour before Sherlock stopped abruptly, stilling himself in the shadows between two buildings. John did his best to tuck himself quietly beside his companion.

"Now will you tell mphf-" John started to ask in a hushed voice, when Sherlock's hand was pressed none too gently against his face and the consulting detective uttered a quick, "Shh!"

The ex-army doctor peeled back the fingers of the world's only consulting detective, and glowered across the street, trying to see what he saw...but there was nothing to see. John glanced irritably up at Sherlock, who waited a beat longer before nodding to himself and moving deeper into the alleyway.

John followed wordlessly, watching in distaste as the taller man quickly dispatched the lock on a nearby window and wormed his way inside the building. There was a brief pause before Sherlock's head peaked back outside, and he pinned John with his gaze. "Are you coming."

The ex-army doctored rolled his eyes helplessly at the sky and muttered, "Right behind you," before scrambling up and in.

Once they were inside the darkened hall, Sherlock's whispered monologue began. "This is a quiet, but well established funeral home. It has been in operation for fifteen years."

"You're just saying this to sound cryptic and omnipotent, aren't you?" John whispered spitefully. "I really wish you weren't always right; a little humility would be good for you."

Sherlock stopped and looked pointedly over his shoulder. At length, John sighed, defeated and waved his hands for the younger man to continue. "Go on, we all know you're about to be brilliant."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth quirked upwards slightly, and he continued. "Anna Reynolds, or the woman pretending to _be_ Anna Reynolds, was seated beside us at the restaurant tonight."

John's mouth fell open in shock. That would certainly explain Sherlock's reticence. He'd probably gone there to observe her, but…, "How did you know she would be there?"

Sherlock's fledgling smile turned into an all-out smirk. "The wait-staff told me. Before you arrived to hear his case directly, Mr. Miller had mentioned that Palmer's was one of Anna's favorite restaurants, how they used to eat there at least twice a month before her possible abduction. After he left it was a simple matter of asking the right people when she would be there. Any staff, especially staff at a posh facility where celebrities or other important persons could be guests, will have someone willing to break client confidentiality for a boost to their income. They typically don't ask questions, so Anna's relative lack of fame was of no consequence. They had her name on their register, and I arranged for tonight's reservations and seating arrangements."

"Amazing," John murmured with reluctant admiration. "You make it sound so simple."

"Naturally," Sherlock replied. "You played your part very well, not too much conversation, and not too little. That made it easy for me to listen in to their conversation. They were discreet, naturally, but I heard mention of a funeral that is to take place tomorrow, and each of the individuals at Anna's table were utterly delighted at the idea. Not one sign of regret, mourning, or boredom from any of them. I think they may have killed Anna and be ridding themselves of the evidence."

John paled. "Did they mention cremation?"

Sherlock shook his head, "They weren't specific, but if we're going to get any evidence, now is the time to do so."

They crept down the darkened hallways of the funeral home and into the morgue. Sherlock scanned to logs of recent admissions, and started opening the refrigerated enclosures, lifting pale sheets and scanning the faces of the dead.

"Can you recognize her?" John asked watching Sherlock rifle through the bodies as though they were paperwork.

"Of course. Mr. Miller showed me her picture. I have an eidetic memory."

In less than two minutes Sherlock had checked and rejected every body awaiting its final resting place. The lanky detective stepped back and scanned the drawers, eyes flitting over the numbers, mind racing.

"Sherlock," John ventured. "If you can't find her we should leave. We shouldn't be here in the first place."

"Lestrade's already in route," Sherlock murmured absently, eyes still flitting about the room. "There was a silent alarm on the window, and the door to the morgue. The owners value their reputation. I just need a moment; she must be here."

"Sherlock!" John hissed, scanning the ceiling of the room for a camera. "I _never_ agreed to get arrested for you!"

"You won't, the imposters will. I just need a few minutes…"

"You've had a few minutes!" John was tugging at his arm now, "Sherlock, we need to go!"

There was the sound of rushing feet in the hallway and John sagged in defeat. It was too late. By the time Lestrade and Anderson burst through the door and yelled, "New Scotland Yard! Hands where I can see them!" John had already turned towards them, his hands aloft, and his head down.

"Christ!" Greg spat, pocketing his badge and striding forwards towards Sherlock.

Sherlock waived a hand dismissively behind himself. "Just a few moments; I haven't found the body I'm looking for…"

Greg yanked Sherlock's arm up behind his back, whirling the taller man around to face him. "Oi! You can't go looking through a morgue any time you please!" His tone was exasperated and exhausted, like a parent who had had to repeat themselves too many times.

"You had better hope the owners of this place are the understanding type," Sally added with a smirk, gently cuffing John while her Detective Inspector strong armed the world's only consulting detective into his own pair of cuffs.

"This is a mistake, Lestrade!," Sherlock insisted, jerking around as the Detective Inspector forced him down the hall. "Their getting away with murder!"

"Do _not_ make this worse than it already is!" Lestrade growled, dragging Sherlock towards his car. "I owe you for your help in the past, but God help me, I have no idea what I'm going to do about this, or if I should even help you!"

Sherlock seemed to calm slightly when they finally reached the car. Lestrade and Donovan helped John and Sherlock into the backseat. "You really should bring him to the Yard," Donovan said, eyeing Sherlock warily. "He's only going to find some way to cause trouble if you leave him there."

"Right," Greg nodded. "Call me if you need anything." He climbed in the car, pulled on his seatbelt, and glared into the rearview mirror.

Sherlock smiled and leaned in conspiratorially. "You'll probably be needing these." The cuffs, which had moments ago been securing his slim wrists hung loosely from a single forefinger.

Lestrade's face flushed red with anger. "Keep your damn cuffs on!"

* * *

Lestrade slammed the door behind him, still peaked about Sherlock slipping so easily out of his cuffs. He had legitimately put them on the impossible consulting detective, and tightly too!

John, who had been dozing in the corner of their cell, jumped and came to full alertness immediately.

"The owners of the funeral home have agreed not to press charges," he began, kicking Sherlock's feet when the slumped man wouldn't even make eye-contact. "However, they are taking out a restraining order on you, Sherlock. You're not to go anywhere near the building, or any of its employees, or funerals. Do you understand?"

Sherlock stared lazily at the ceiling, his hands pressed firmly together just under his nose, and did not reply.

"Sherlock!" Greg snapped. "So help me, I can turn around and just forget we have you here for the next week!"

The world's only consulting detective's head lolled to one side as he finally deigned to make eye contact with Lestrade. "That's a violation of my rights," he replied lazily.

Greg's fists clenched and he looked pointedly at the wall above Sherlock's head for a count of ten before he replied, "Are you going to abide by the law, or aren't you?"

Sherlock got to his feet in a movement that looked like a massive shrug. "You will not have to arrest me again." Sherlock assured him, belatedly adding, "This week."

The Detective Inspector fixed Sherlock with a long hard look before gesturing pointedly to the door. "Out with you, then." As the taller man passed him, Lestrade grabbed him by the elbow for a moment and added, "Oh, and Sherlock, if I do have a reason to arrest you again, don't expect any help from me. I'll try to keep you here as long as I can."

Sherlock nodded sharply, and he and John were finally allowed to make their way outside. John was sullen and mute at they collected their belongings. He intended not to say another word to Sherlock for the rest of the day, or ever, if he could get away with it. Right now, all he wanted was to crawl under the covers and shut out the world…God, he was so tired...

They clambered into the cab and John had _just_ closed his eyes, when he heard Sherlock's deep baritone waiver, as though choked by emotion, "Riverview Cemetery, please, as fast as you can. We're late for the funeral of a dear friend."

John's eyes snapped open. "Sherlock?!"

A long arm snaked around John's shoulders, and pulled him flush against the chest of the world's only consulting detective. "We'll be there soon," Sherlock murmured, for the cabbies benefit, glaring menacingly down at John.

"I'm not going to be party to this!" John hissed, jerking ineffectually in Sherlock's arms.

"There is a chance she may still be alive," Sherlock whispered in his ear. _That_ brought John to a standstill.

"What?"

Sherlock leaned in closer, speaking in hushed tones so that the cabbie wouldn't hear. "I researched our imposters before we went to the restaurant, and again on my phone while you were sleeping."

"The Yard took our phones," John muttered, perplexed.

Sherlock shrugged. "I had a spare, but that's irrelevant. These imposters have no known criminal history. They probably were the philanthropists they claimed to be, but they got greedy when they became aware of the depths of Miss. Reynolds purse. If that's the case, having lived a basically moralistic life before, they might be squeamish about actually harming her directly. They may be trying to bury her alive."

John stiffened, then and nodded, sitting up straight so that he could scan the street signs and track their progress. Beside him, Sherlock was smirking, but John didn't care. Let the bastard be amused, this was not about a contest of wills now, or a case, this was about a life.

* * *

They ran through the hushed cemetery, towards the small gathering in the distance, Sherlock easily outpacing the good doctor with his long legs. John watched as the world's only consulting detective barreled through the small congregation, and strong-armed his way towards the coffin, wrenching it open.

John stumbled to a halt, groaning in frustrated disappointment when the peaceful face of a woman in what had been in her late eighties was revealed. The sight gave Sherlock pause as well, which gave security enough time to catch up with him, and begin pulling him away from the coffin.

"I _knew_ you would try this, you despicable man!" Anna, or the look-alike Anna was wailing. "God, this is my _grandmother_ , let her rest in peace!

A tall man in a posh suit who may have been a co-conspirator and/or a staff member at the funeral home pulled the hysterical woman into his arms, trying to sooth her. "It's okay," he murmured, "It's okay. It's almost over."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously, and he renewed his struggles against the security guards holding him back.

"Don't," John called out, raising his hands as he approached the snarling consulting detective. "You're only making it worse for yourself, Sherlock."

Sherlock's jaw tensed, and there was a sickening snap as he finally wrested himself free from the security guards. John cursed under his breath, hoping he wouldn't be arrested for association.

Before the security guards could restrain him, Sherlock leapt for the coffin once more, using his left arm to wrench the coffin off its dais. There was a collective gasp as the coffin tumbled to the group, some if its wooden paneling shattering on impact. John watched in horror as his barbaric flatmate violently shoved the body aside and scrabbled at the fractured wood. Security had caught up to him again, and were beginning to pull him away once more. "John! She's still breathing!"

The ex-army doctor jolted and rushed forward, barreling through the crowd. John could hear sirens coming, and people were shouting or running, but John did not lose focus. He knelt beside the coffin while Sherlock maneuvered himself between his blogger and the guards who were still trying to restrain them both.

John grimaced when, indeed, he did see a face. There was another body hidden in the false bottom of the coffin. He reached his hand through the opening to check for a pulse...it was there, but it was weak and thready. He scrabbled at the wood, looking for a catch and a hinge that might release his patient. He shoved, and the top portion of the coffin slid aside slightly. He shoved harder. A funeral home employee, possibly the director, ran around the corner just as the top part of the coffin fell away from the first.

Anna's face was pale and slightly blue/gray. John could barely feel her breath as he examined her. He made a fist and pressed his knuckles firmly against her sternum, rubbing them up and down. There was no reaction, and John pushed harder, even though he knew she'd be bruised a livid purple tomorrow...if she lived... He looked up and started barking orders at the gaping funeral director. "We need an ambulance! Tell them to bring Naloxone if they have it, this looks like an opioid overdose!" The older man nodded sharply, and began shouting into his phone.

John bent over his patient, pinching her nose shut, and lifting her chin so that he could begin rescue breathing. He watched her chest rise with his each exhalation, knowing it wasn't quite enough oxygen. When a paramedic came forward John shifted slightly to make room for her, but continued his rescue breathing. the paramedic quickly drew a dose of Nalaxone into a syringe. "Preparing to inject," she announced as she gripped Anna's upper arm tightly. John pulled back and nodded, bracing himself. If this _was_ an opioid overdose, Anna would flail, and could hit someone as she woke. John watched as the needle went in, and held his breath as the paramedic pushed the plunger down.

One minute passed, then two, the paramedic was prepping a second dose when Anna's lips parted, and she gasped for air. "Can you hear me?" John asked, leaning over his patient, still prepared for an unintentional spasm. Anna blinked her eyes open, glanced around and immediately tried to sit upright. "Easy," John murmured, supporting her with an arm around her back. "Easy, you've had a close call. We need to get you to hospital so you can be evaluated." Anna nodded mutely, still looking around in a daze and shivering. John gave her his jacket as he helped her onto a stretcher. The paramedic caught his eye and nodded gratefully. "We've got her from here."

John nodded and forced himself to step back. He lifted his head and scanned the area for Sherlock. There were morticians arranging the body of the old women respectfully on another stretcher. Most of the yard officers who had arrived on scene were busy questioning people. Sherlock was sitting on a bench beside Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, shoving off one of those orange shock blankets and speaking animatedly. John growled in frustration when the blanket slipped to Sherlock's waist. The damned idiot had dislocated his right shoulder.

Shaking his head, John trotted over to the two of them. He arrived in time to hear Sherlock launch into his explanation. "It became a pre-meditated crime of opportunity. There was all this money, just _waiting_ for the taking. And they already have someone who looks a bit like her, they won't even need to let the world know. They draw Anna deeper and deeper into their little project while the other girl has some work done-surely you noticed the surgery scar just behind her left ear?" Lestrade shook his head and Sherlock rolled his eyes in frustration.

"You're shoulder is dislocated," John announced, which earned him a further huff of annoyance.

"Obviously, John. There was no other way to break their grip." He turned pointedly towards the Detective Inspector and drew breath to continue his story when John interrupted him once more.

"It needs to be set. I can set it while you talk if you insist."

"Fine," Sherlock sighed, gently shrugging out of his Belstaff and suit jacket. He started to work on the buttons of his oxford shirt, but John smacked his hands away and took over, convinced Sherlock would make things worse in his impatience. Greg raised a curious eyebrow before refocusing on the world's only consulting detective.

"Once the facial alterations were complete for their stand-in, they made the switch," Sherlock pressed on.

"I thought you said that happened weeks ago," Greg muttered scratching some notes on a slim pad of paper.

"It _did_ ," Sherlock insisted, gesticulating with his right arm. John glared at him and told him to keep still as he began massaging Sherlock's shoulder and arm muscles, trying to ease his shoulder back into place. "As I said, this was the first time any of them had attempted such a crime, and they wanted the perfect alibis. I'm guessing out that the old woman in the coffin was a grandmother or relative to one of them. Her being in poor health probably helped them to conceive of the idea of how to dispose of Miss. Reynolds. What is most likely is that this unfortunate woman did not die quickly enough, or as soon as expected, forcing the conspirators to keep Anna captive until the time was right. After all, who would _ever_ guess to check inside a coffin that is already buried and occupied."

Greg shook his head in disbelief. "It's very lucky for Miss. Reynolds that someone did; she'd have died without you, you know."

"Details," Sherlock drawled with apparent boredom.

John snorted in disbelief, drawing the attention of the others. "You _care_ ," he murmured, looking up at Sherlock in stunned disbelief.

"About what? The case is closed, mission accomplished. Time for the next game."

John remained kneeling at Sherlock's feet, his fingers still massaging the now restored shoulder. "Not about the game, Sherlock," he insisted, "You care about that woman, about Anna."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, unmoved. "John, if I hadn't solved the case today Lestrade would've made getting the evidence I needed tedious. That and you would've complained about grave robbing until I showed you the truth."

A sure, victorious grin spread over John's face. "You have a flare for drama, no one doubts that, but that wasn't the only reason you tipped over that coffin today. You _care_. You didn't want her to die, and I can prove it."

The world's only consulting detective looked more than doubtful. That is, until John rose to stand over him, his hand on the juncture of Sherlock's neck and shoulder, and his lips grazing his ear. "After your shoulder slipped back in place, I was checking the connection." He pressed down meaningfully with his fingers, pressing lightly into Sherlock's carotid artery. "When Greg mentioned that she would have died without you…I took your pulse."

Sherlock jerked away from him suddenly, straightening his shirt and tugging on his jacket and coat. "An elevated pulse is normal after an injury," he insisted tersely, not meeting John's eyes.

John wasn't buying it. "When you have so much control over your transport? And when your shoulder slipped back in that easily? Do I even want to _know_ how many times it's been dislocated?"

The world's only consulting detective declined to answer, walking away in a huff.

John thought he might actually have ruffled Sherlock's feathers, so he cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled after him, "You _care_ , Sherlock Holmes! You care so much!"

Beside him Lestrade chuckled softly and shook his head. "I don't know where he found you, John, but I think you might be good for him."

The ex-army doctor shrugged, still grinning. "I'm not sure about that. I'm not even sure I really got under his skin, but it's nice to think so. It would be decent revenge for the constant eyeballs in the microwave."

The Detective Inspector pressed on, undeterred. "I think you _did_ get to him. I've never seen him leave a crime scene before he was done not-so-subtly berating us all for being so stupid."

John's smile fell slightly as he considered that. He'd been living with Sherlock for a few months now, and he'd mostly written him off as an impossible git. A brilliant, but impossible git. Still there was this stubborn part of the ex-army doctor that was convinced the world's only consulting detective was more than cutting barbs and quick wits.

"I've known Sherlock a long time," Lestrade murmured, more somber now. "He's...Things haven't been easy for him, and those are just the things I know about." Greg sighed and kicked at the dirt. "He's a good man, always has been. I just hope one day that he'll be a happy one."

John turned then and stared after the rapidly fading figure of Sherlock Holmes, pondering Greg's statement. "Want to get a pint sometime and share Sherlock war stories?" John asked turning back to face the Detective Inspector. He knew he'd still have many months to go in his role as an indentured blogger, and he'd take anything that would help make the time easier, even if it was only easier to understand."

Greg smiled and nodded. "Definitely." Then he looked around at the scene before them and sighed. "How about tonight, around five? It'll take me about that long to clean up the mess he's left. You go catch up on your sleep."

John agreed and turned to go, wondering if he should head back to 221 B, or take James up on his offer to serve as a port in the storm that had become his life.


	10. Sentiment

Chapter Nine: Sentiment

Sherlock strode back and forth between the kitchen and the sitting room muttering to himself as he fussed over files and maps taped to the walls, connected to pictures and other documents on the wall with little red strings. It was starting to look like the madhouse of a conspiracy theorist.

John sat perched on the steps with a mug of tea, watching his distressed flatmate. Well, distressed wasn't exactly the right word… He was focused, very focused. For all intents and purposes, Sherlock looked exactly as if he were puzzling an important case over in his mind. But if that was a case, he hadn't told John anything about it. John had asked, after fixing himself breakfast of course, and had never received an answer. The good doctor wasn't even sure if the world's only consulting detective was aware of his presence…

While it wasn't uncommon for Sherlock to throw John right into the thick of a case with no warning, the ex-army doctor usually had at least some grasp of the situation by the time Sherlock arrived at the pacing and muttering stage of his deductions Except…John had never seen Sherlock's hands shake as they were now. It was probably the result of too much caffeine, seeing how Sherlock never slept. At least John hoped it was caffeine . His stomach turned at the thought of watching another person's addiction tear them to pieces, he was barely coping with his sister's difficulties.

Greg and he had managed to have a few pints together, since the last case, and he'd acquainted John with the details of Sherlock's history with heroin and cocaine. The world's only consulting detective was too jumpy to be sedated, but not quite agitated enough to be conclusively high, either. His hands were shaking, yes, and he was pacing, but his steps were measured, and he spent considerable time at each collection of files/papers/whatever it was he had tacked to the wall.

John sipped his tea and idly wondered how difficult it would be to obtain a urinalysis from Sherlock. Doing so without his knowledge was out of the question, even if he was secretive about it. Still, it might be worth risking Sherlock's wrath for the peace of mind clean results would bring. The ex-army doctor took another sip of tea, as he watched his flatmate transverse the floor once more. Every time he thought he had made the slightest bit of progress in understanding the world's one consulting detective, Sherlock would do something unexpected and make John question everything. Well, almost everything. There was no doubting at this juncture that Sherlock Holmes was an arrogant arse. But…was there more to him?

John had gone back and forth on that issue enough times to make his head spin. He wanted, desperately wanted to believe that there was more to Sherlock than the cold, calculating exterior he showed to the world. The ex-army doctor couldn't get Gregory Lestrade's words out of his head. _"I just hope one day that he'll be a happy one..."_ If there _wasn't_ more to Sherlock, John seriously doubted that the world's only consulting detective could be happy, he would be too alone…

John stood, artfully avoided collision with his flatmate, and washed his mug out in the sink. "I'm headed out," he announced, "Would you like me to get anything for you?" There was no response. The good doctor sighed softly, set his mug in a cabinet and went to pull on his jacket. "Try to remember to eat something will you? Or at least drink, you _can't_ survive without water, trust me, I've checked up on all the research." There was no reply, or even a sound of distain as Sherlock carefully reviewed…whatever it was that he was reviewing. John waved an unseen and unacknowledged goodbye, and headed out the door.

* * *

Fog lay heavy over the buildings and streets as John navigated his way through London. He'd taken out a PO box shortly after he'd moved in with Sherlock. He didn't think for a moment that his precautions of holding a PO box for his sister's letters, or the winding route he took to collect said letters, kept Sherlock from knowing _exactly_ what he was doing. Sherlock knew everything, more or less. Still, the illusion of privacy gave the ex-army doctor some solace. Sometimes John snuck away to check his PO box even when he was certain there was no letter, just to get some time to himself.

Luckily there was a new letter waiting for him today. He waved to the clerk and ducked back outside. While it was foggy and the air was chilly, it wasn't raining. Eager to read his letter, John leaned against the corner of the building, well away from the door, and ripped open the envelope.

 _Dear Johnny,_

 _How are things back in London? It must be getting pretty foggy by now. I never thought I would miss that shitty weather... It's beautiful here, peaceful, and it gives you a lot of time to think. Sometimes I'm not sure that's such a good thing._

 _I'm still feeling better than I was, but that just leaves me clearheaded enough to remember what I've really_ _ **lost**_ _. Clara's never going to come back to me, but I can't stop myself from wishing that she would, or imagining how I might be able to win her back..._

 _And I can never begin to repay the damage I've caused you, either emotionally or monetarily. I feel so guilty about that, about everything, and sometimes it's hard to breathe. This really is the reality I have to face now; the monster I tried to drink away..._

 _I'm scared. Scared about drinking again, and scared about staying sober... There doesn't seem to be an easy way to go, but I can't just stay here forever either._

 _I want you to know that I am forever and eternally grateful for everything you've done for me. I'm still not ready for you to visit yet, both because I know you can't really afford it, and because I really think some distance will be good for me. You're my_ _ **little**_ _brother, Johnny, and I've spent most of my life leaning on you; it's time for you to take care of yourself and for me to stand on my own two feet._

 _I have been keeping tabs on you, through your blog. There are some very interesting details in there that you haven't been mentioning in your letters. It sounds like you're having a lot of fun though, and that thought makes me smile. Please stay safe, and write back soon._

 _Love,_

 _Harry._

John rand his fingers over the paper of the letter, bemused. Fun. Harry thought John's mad chases around London and being thrown into the thick of it with little or no explanation from Sherlock, not even accounting for the eyes in the freezer or the thumbs in the fridge was _fun_?! The thought made him laugh.

...He guessed it was fun, in a way. It would be a lot more fun if he wasn't having this silent (or sometimes not so silent) contest of wills with his flatmate, but yes, it was fun. He enjoyed the thrill of the chase, and as much as it was sometimes unsettling, John was always awed by Sherlock's intellect. It almost made John wonder what it would feel like when there _weren't_ body parts in his kitchen any longer. It certainly wouldn't be as interesting.

John shook his head at himself, tucked Harry's letter in his pocket, and began his slow meander back to baker street.

* * *

Sherlock sat down on the sofa and sighed. There _was_ a connection here, he was sure of it! But where…? He hadn't given up on his big, and what would likely be, his final case; the spider at the center of London's web of crime.

After the failed case involving Ms. Adaline, Sherlock began to suspect that this spider was aware of his probing into its web, and that Ms. Adaline was involved somehow. Why else would she have left a syringe for him to find in her hiding place? It didn't make any sense, not unless she knew about his poisoning, something he had never shared with anyone... But this spider was clever. They might be able to figure it out if they'd begun investigating Sherlock, if he'd been sloppy enough to draw their notice... He looked down at his trembling hands and sighed. The symptoms were getting harder to control…

But he was close, so close to discovering the truth, some crucial thread that he would be able to follow all the way back to its source at last. He needed to think, the answers were all here in front of him, he just needed to think… He shifted, laid down on the sofa, pressed his hand together below his chin, and closed his eyes.

* * *

"Sherlock? I'm home," John called out, strolling into their flat and shrugging off his jacket. Although time and experience had made it perfectly clear to him that Sherlock didn't listen to him, and that, somehow, even when he wasn't home Sherlock talked to him and had John _agreeing_ to do this or that, John still felt it necessary to announce his presence. The ex-army doctor didn't actually think that such mundane announcements would result in Sherlock actually warning him about an experiment he was conducting that involved ears simmering on the stove, or informing John of the possibility of a case on the horizon. No, it was more about the simple domestic routine; he'd had so little of that in his life, that he found himself clinging to any sense of peace or solidarity he could find.

John scanned the apartment for any stray experiments, or anything else he might want to avoid, and gave a little start when he found Sherlock Holmes asleep on the sofa. Sherlock. Asleep. The two words just didn't go together. Sherlock _never_ slept, as far as John could tell; there was even a half-hearted rumor at the Yard, according to Greg, that Sherlock was a vampire. Surely he must be thinking, and yet…

When Sherlock decided to mull something over he had a tendency to freeze in place. His breathing would slow, and more than once John had been able to take his pulse without seeming to disturb him. But, the position of Sherlock's body was all off. Regardless of where he was or whether he was sitting, standing, or laying down, Sherlock _always_ pressed his hands together as though he were praying and rested them with his fingertips against his chin, occasionally brushing his lower lip. Now, however Sherlock's hands were slack, the fingers curled together under his chin like a child.

John sat quietly on the coffee table and studied his flatmate. He could see the steady thrum of his pulse in the vein at Sherlock's neck, and the twitch of REM sleep beneath his dark lashes. A fond smile crept onto the ex-army doctor's face. Imagine that, Sherlock Holmes slept. Gingerly, he reached over the back of the sofa and laid the blanket that he had left there over Sherlock's lanky body. John frowned as he tucked the blanket in and gently rested the back of his hand against Sherlock's forehead…he might have a fever.

The good doctor moved silently up the stairs, locked his letter from Harry in the trunk at the foot of his bed, and fetched some medicine. He was just placing two tablets and a glass of water on the coffee table when his phone buzzed. John pulled it out of his pocket and smiled when he saw a text from James.

 _I get out early today. Want to have lunch in the park near your flat?_

John glanced out the window and nodded to himself. It was cloudy, but it didn't look like rain. In this climate, it was best to take what he could get.

 _Absolutely. See you in 30 minutes?_

John had just enough time to pull on his jacket and calculate his rout past a sandwich shop before his phone buzzed again.

 _Yes, see you then._

* * *

James' face broke into a grin when he saw the ex-army doctor. "John!" He waved his friend over to the bench he already occupied. John nodded and trotted over.

"Hey, I bought sandwiches and crisps," John said, holding out a portion for his friend.

James' smile crinkled the edge of his eyes as he took one of the small brown bags that John was offering. "That was sweet of you; you didn't have to get lunch for me too."

John sat down and shot James a sly sideways glance. "You brought the water, right?"

James chuckled softly as he handed John one of the two large bottles of water he had brought with him. "Yes, of course."

They hadn't really planned this, the first time it had happened, but since then it had become an unspoken tradition whenever they could get away to share lunch in the park. John liked it. It was so nice to be part of a team instead of being the only one holding everything together. James was just about the only uncomplicated thing in his life right now, and John was grateful for it.

They sat together in a comfortable silence, enjoying their food. John even closed his eyes and leaned back into the bench, reveling in the quiet company.

"How's your sister doing?"

John opened his eyes and took in a deep, slow breath before replying. "She's alright." James still didn't know the details of Harry's story, and he hadn't asked. The ex-army doctor knew his friend must have a few suspicions, but he'd respectfully kept them to himself. At the same time, James had shown his support by asking after Harry every few weeks. It was an odd place to be. John had never once felt pressured, and yet he had felt quietly supported since James had first seen the pictures of Harry's roses. The quiet acceptance that followed every brief response John offered about his sister's well-being made him want to open up. It had been a long time since he'd last felt he could truly trust someone.

"She's in her seventh rehab center. She's had her ups and downs, that's to be expected. I just...I really want her to be okay this time, but I don't want her to feel that kind of pressure."

James leaned gently into his side, frowning softly as John unburdened himself. He placed a hand on the good doctor's forearm and gave a gentle squeeze. "That's why you haven't been visiting?"

John looked away for a moment and swallowed. He thought of Harry's letter, and his deal with Sherlock and replied. "Part of the reason, anyways."

James nodded, not pressing any further.

"How are things at the morgue?"

"Quiet."

John turned, saw the humor glittering in his friend's eyes, and smiled. "You don't say? Sounds like a nice change of pace." They chuckled quietly and went back their sandwiches and easier conversation.

John enlightened James about the details of various cases he hadn't included in his blogs, and James sat in awe of John's adventures. When they had finished their food they stood in tandem and walked to the nearest bin to dispose of their refuse.

"My offer of being flatmates still stands," James reminded him gently, telegraphing that he knew John would not be convinced to back out of his deal with Sherlock, too much was at stake. "I'm in the medical field, I'm used to 3am wake up calls."

John nodded his thanks. "As tempting as that offer has become, it would only make Sherlock more insufferable. He's already insinuating they we're a couple."

James faltered slightly, and John reached out to catch him by the arm. "He is?"

"When isn't he?" John replied rolling his eyes. They had stopped walking now, and were standing together under a large tree. "He know when I'm texting you, when I'm meeting you, and when I'm so much as thinking about you. It's bloody irritating."

James shifted uneasily, glancing at the branches overhead. "I would've called it possessive. It seems like he wants to keep you to himself."

John shook his head. "He just wants attention. I can't tell you how many times he's connived to present his findings to the yard or to his client in the most dramatic way possible. I told you about when he got us arrested right?" The ex-army doctor moved as though he would continue walking through the park, when he started and took a step back. "Wait. Not you too. _Please_ tell me that you're not trying to say you think he fancies me?!"

James looked guiltily away and shrugged. "Well, you do talk about him a lot."

"That's because he's taken over my life!" John cried throwing his hands into the air. "I don't think he _can_ fancy anyone." He shook his head in disbelief, "Even if he did, he would have the damndest way of showing it."

James took a step forward into John's personal space, forcing John to look up slightly. His face held a soft, cautious smile. "Well, not everyone can be articulate about their feelings, John." James's hand lifted, slowly, hesitating in the air before resting lightly on John's shoulder.

The ex-army doctor's brows knit together in confusion for a moment before realization shot threw him like a thunderclap. James fancied him. _James._ "I..."

James's smile morphed into a frown, and he eased back a little, chilly air whirling between them as he did so. "I'm sorry, I thought-"

"Don't," John cut him off. "Don't apologize, James. I just wasn't expecting that." John sighed and repeated, "Don't apologize. I'm living in such a web of deception between the cases and Sherlock himself, it's nice to hear something _honest_ for once."

James's eyebrows lifted expectantly. "And?"

John thought for a moment and remembered exactly _why_ he hadn't been dating these past few years. "I'm sorry, James. My life is so chaotic now that I wouldn't be good for _anyone_. You know that better than most. It wouldn't be fair; I need to sort some things out for myself first, make sure Harry's settled after treatment..."

James nodded slowly. "I understand," and his tone made John think that he really did understand all of it.

The ex-army doctor's shoulder's sagged with relief as they began to walk again, slowly making their way to the edge of the park. "Thank you."

They turned towards each other when they reached the street again to shake hands before they parted ways. "See you around?" James asked.

John nodded. "Definitely." He was a practical man. James had been a good friend to him, and he wasn't about to throw that over just because his friend had asked him for something he couldn't give. His life was in such turmoil, it wasn't worth losing his port in a storm. And somehow, things didn't feel awkward. He was still surprised at James's confession, and if he was being honest, he was even a little flattered.

James gave his hand one final squeeze and said, "I hope you have a good day," before he turned to leave. John smiled and placed his hand in his pocket so it wouldn't lose the warmth James had transferred to it. He smiled to himself and watched James walk away for far longer than he should have.

The ex-army doctor gave himself a little shake, and forced himself to turn around. He'd told James that a relationship would be too much for him to think about right now, and it _was_ true. John glanced once over his shoulder and grinned when he saw James had also turned around to wave at him. He waved back, before facing forward once more. Romantic relationships where definitely out of the question...for now, anyways.

* * *

John was still in a good mood when he arrived back at the flat, a mood which faded quickly when he found Sherlock still on the sofa with _Harry's_ letter in his hands. John would know that stationary anywhere. "Why are your rifling through _my_ things, Sherlock?!" he yelled, throwing his jacket onto the floor. "Nowhere in our little arrangement did I agree to give up all of my privacy to you! That's _my_ letter! Give it back!"

Sherlock jumped when John started shouting, but the ex-army doctor was convinced it was an act. _No one_ could surprise the great Sherlock Holmes. Still, his reflexes were quick, and he lifted the letter high into the air as he stood, thrusting it out of John's reach. He would have tried to dash for his room, but the furious ex-army captain was already on him, jumping onto the sofa, and trying to use Sherlock's shoulders as leverage. "John, calm down!" Sherlock tried to insist, but the good doctor was having none of it.

"You insult me and everything I value at every turn, you drag me into some idiotic test of wills hoping to break my spirit, you keep me up at all hours, you _never_ give me any warning about what we're about to jump into, you've bloody gotten me _arrested_ , and now you're stealing my sisters letters!?"

Sherlock tried to break his flatmate's hold, he was confident he could do so given his superior strength, but he underestimated the strength of John's grip and the leverage he was applying with it. Of course it made sense in retrospect. Being a short man in the army John would've had to use his low center of gravity and his knowledge of anatomy to help command the respect of his fellows. The world's only consulting detective managed to take a few steps forward, but he had expected to throw his blogger off, not carry him along. The unexpected shift of weight caused him to lose his balance and they tumbled to the floor with a magnificent crash.

Sherlock brained himself on the low table by the sofa, and John landed squarely on top of him, wresting the letter from Sherlock's elegant fingers with a triumphant "Ha!"

"My letter," Sherlock murmured, shaking his head, trying to clear the spots from his vision.

"What?!" John spat, his lips pulled back, contorting his face into a furious grimace.

Sherlock scowled petulantly up at him. "Examine it for yourself!"

John smoothed the crumpled paper in his hands, holding it high in case Sherlock attempted to grab for it once more. His mouth fell agape at the first three words.

 _Dear Mr. Holmes,_

Mr. Holmes. Harry had actually written this impossible man! John glared down at Sherlock once more before returning his gaze to the letter.

 _You have a point there, I suppose. I have spent a lot of time looking outside myself for answers or solutions, when I'm really the only person who can do this; the only one responsible for my own behavior. It's easier blaming or relying on other people, but none of that will actually change the situation._

 _Everyone who recovers always says "It was the hardest thing I ever had to do," and I was just sort of hoping it wouldn't be that difficult for me. Now that I think of it, though, you never wrote about difficulty, you wrote about focus, and drive. I can tell from your letters, and my brother's blog how important your work is to you. It must be more important than the drugs, since work helps keep your cravings away..._

 _That's what I'll focus on then, for now; finding what drives me, what motivates me. I never really explored it before I turned to alcohol; it was easier to run away. I must have wanted something, or I never would've married Clara, and I never would've wrote to Johnny while he was away. I know I like my roses, so that's a start._

 _Thank you. You're a hard man to figure out, especially since Johnny can't seem to make heads or tails of you, so I'm not sure if you really meant to help, but you did._

 _You seem to know everything, so I'm sure you know what kind of roses I grow. If you ever need to examine anything about them for a case, let me know and I'll post some to you overnight, no questions asked. Only my roses though, I won't steal for you. Lord knows what you'd ever need roses for, but you did leave eyeballs in the microwave so... Just call the center if you decide to take me up on it._

 _Good luck to you, Mr. Holmes, though I doubt you really need_ _luck_ _. Please look after my brother for me, somehow I think you're good for each other._

 _Respectfully,_

 _Harriet Watson._

John scanned the letter once, twice, then slowly drew the letter down to his lap. Sherlock had managed to prop himself up on his elbows while John read, but the ex-army doctor was still on top of him, knees on either side of his hips.

John blinked, opened his mouth, and swallowed, licking his lips. He didn't know what to say. "You...you've been writing my sister?"

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him. "It wasn't my intention, but she had written me to offer her thanks, and I replied that thanks was hardly necessary considering her high likely hood of failure. That made her angry and we argued back and forth for a while, now she's thanking me again." Sherlock shook his head, gently. "She makes about as much sense as you do."

"You shared with her about your past addictions?" John asked, glancing at the letter.

"I imparted the facts of my argument, John. I am not recovered, I simply replaced the drugs for my work." Sherlock shrugged. "The work is more stimulating anyway."

John stared down at his flatmate in shock. He didn't doubt that Sherlock responded with an argument to Harry's letter of thanks, because of his insufferable need to be right. If he had tried to help her it was likely because of his arrogance and his need to keep John in check for their little contest of wills. That should have colored John's gratitude, but it didn't. For the first time his sister wasn't arguing about the treatment she was getting, or claiming to know everything. She really seemed to be putting herself out there, and Sherlock appeared to have helped her, perhaps in ways that John was unable to. John leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's slim shoulder's. "Thank you."

Sherlock flinched and stiffened under him. "Not you too! Unhand me!"

John chuckled and pulled back. "Right, sorry." John moved to get off of Sherlock when his hand brushed the consulting detective's cheek and he stilled.

Sherlock noticed the shift in his flatmate's demeanor and asked, "John?"

The good doctor didn't reply. Instead he leaned forward and placed the back of his hand against Sherlock's forehead, looking intently into his eyes. "You still have a fever."

The world's only consulting detective blinked owlishly at him. "So?"

"So I left you medicine, Sherlock! Didn't you see it?"

Sherlock shifted his gaze to the coffee table and nodded. "I did, but I had other business to attend to."

John's expression became stern. "Sherlock, you can't work as effectively if you're not healthy. I'm surprised you work as well as you do with the way you starve yourself and never sleep." The good doctor reached back and lifted the tablets and glass of water from the low table. "Take your medicine."

"Are you going to get off me?" Sherlock asked, looking smug.

If he had hoped to deter John by making him uncomfortable by their proximity he had failed utterly. "Take. Your. Medicine." John insisted, pushing the tablets against Sherlock's lips.

The cupids bow lips parted in defeat, and the tablets were pushed inside. John pressed the glass against Sherlock's lips next, and watched him drink. Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he turned his head away after John had pressed over half the glass of water into him; much more than was necessary to wash the medicine down. John smirked, victoriously.

"There now, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

Sherlock's reply was promptly cut short by one Mrs. Hudson strolling into their flat with tea and biscuits. "Oh!" She said, coming to an abrupt halt when she spied them on the floor. "My apologies, I didn't know you were, well.." A wry smile crept onto her features. "I'll just set this down and be on my way, then." She set the tea set down on the low table before them, winked, and slipped back outside, closing the door behind her.

John finally recovered his power of speech as her back disappeared from view and he yelled, "He's not my boyfriend!" Sherlock's baritone laughter rang in his ears.


	11. Unexpected

**Greetings everyone! Once again the case in this chapter is based on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Cannon, feel free to take I guess at the original, and I'll tell you if you're right. ^_^**

 **Trigger Warning: The case described in this chapter is a murder case, and the body is described in somewhat graphic detail.**

 **Thank you to everyone who has left reviews, favorieted, and/or followed this story! You're support is much appreciated. ^_^ Also we're a little over halfway now. I have nineteen chapters planned, with maybe an epilogue, haven't decided. I hope you enjoy this week's update!**

* * *

Chapter 10: Unexpected

"Wrong!" Sherlock declared loudly, throwing the paper he had been reading violently down onto the floor. "Idiots!"

John rolled his eyes and bent to scoop the paper off the floor. If he didn't at least try to stay on top of Sherlock's mess it would engulf the building. "What or who, specifically, is wrong this time?" he asked, setting the paper down on the low table by the sofa, along with Sherlock's tea, and taking a drink from his own mug of tea. This felt like the beginnings of a case, and he'd better get some fluids inside him while he had the chance.

"The yard, the damned lot of them are screwing this up!" Sherlock crossed his arms and scowled peevishly.

John tried hard not to be amused. Sherlock really was a terror sometimes, but it was comical when he started taking personal offense at the proclaimed incompetence of others. John wished he could do a better job of defending his fellow man, but Sherlock's brilliance always made his deductions look easy. Not that John was giving any ground on their personal battle of wills when it came to the human heart, that would never happen.

The ex-army doctor glanced at the paper, frowning at the articles that littered the page. He seriously doubted there was a case hidden in the sales advertisements... "Is there something fishy about those artifacts they're finding at the construction site for the new skyscraper they're putting up?" John asked, gesturing to said article. "They completed most of the digging for the foundation before they found the artifacts, now they're saying those holes in the ground could sit for years while they sell them off."

Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands firmly into his eyes and swore, loudly. "That is probably a laundering operation for stolen items, but you have missed _everything_ of importance!" he ground out, then sighed wearily. "Read the article about the _suicide_..."

John rolled his eyes and scanned the paper again. At last he saw a grainy black and white photo of a delivery truck surrounded by police tape, and a smattering of officers. He scanned the byline.

 _ **Scammonden Bridge Considered High Risk for Suicide**_

 _The recent passing of Mrs. Mary Dwight of_ _Huddersfield again highlights the dark past of Scammonden Bridge. Since the bridge was opened to the public on December 10th, 1970, the bridge has been witness to dozens of suicides/suicide attempts. Officials report continued concern around the bridge's low railings, which could increase this risk..._

John pulled his gaze away from the article once more and stared at his flatmate in confusion. "So... what? Are you offended by their vague statistics?"

Sherlock sent him a withering glare. "Their reporting of the frequency and quantity of persons who jump off this particular bridge for the sole purpose of ending their life is completely accurate, and utterly irrelevant. However, the death they are using to trump up their paper sales is _not_ a suicide! She was murdered."

John glanced down at the paper, then up again at Sherlock. "And you know this _how_?

"Look at the truck, John!" Sherlock flailed his arms about as if the answer were staring them in the face. "The damage is all wrong! Think about it. If you were going to jump off a bridge, how would you do it?"

John took another long sip of tea before answering. The readers of his blog always accused him of making up these conversations. He wondered if he should start videotaping them... At length he replied, "I suppose I would climb over the railing first, turn around so that I could see what I was doing, then jump off."

"Exactly! That is how most people do it. Usually feet first, but occasionally someone dives head first. Trying to be original or something, I don't really know why."

"Sherlock! This is a serious topic!" John scolded, but as usual his reprimand was utterly ignored.

"I know!" the world's only consulting detective gestured wildly with his hands before leaning over the newspaper picture. "See the pattern of the glass fracture in the windshield? And the denting over the hood of the cab?"

John squinted at the picture. "Not really..."

Sherlock threw his hands into the air and collapsed dramatically onto the sofa. "Honestly, John! _All_ the damage indicates that the body hit horizontally!"

"And that's important because...?"

Sherlock began to rub his temples as though he were having a migraine. His tone of voice indicated he felt as though he were explaining something to an exceptionally slow child. "How would you throw a body off a bridge?"

It was John's turn to glare at his impossible flatmate. Still, if this was going to be a case, it was important for him to pay attention. That and the fastest way to get Sherlock moving was to play along. "Fireman's carry ,probably. I'd lean it on the railing if I could, to control the extra weight, so that I wasn't at any risk of falling over too."

"Precisely," Sherlock cried, jumping back into a seated position. "And the body would impact the roadway sideways! Let's go see Lestrade before he bollixes this case up more than he already has." Sherlock lept from the couch with seemingly boundless energy and reached for his coat.

"This might not be in his jurisdiction, Sherlock," John warned, but he put on his jacket anyway.

* * *

"No, absolutely not, Sherlock. No."

"Can't you see you're missing the obvious!" Sherlock insisted.

Lestrade had not been expecting them, but neither was he surprised by their sudden appearance. Sherlock had been making himself a nuisance at the New Scotland Yard too long for it to _ever_ be a surprise.

"Sherlock, _I_ barely tolerate you some days. What on earth makes you think I'm going to sick you on a colleague just because you have a hunch?"

"It's not a hunch!" Sherlock insisted. "It was murder!"

Lestrade sighed and pressed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "You're _sure_?

"Yes," Sherlock insisted. "Absolutely certain."

The Detective Inspector glared up at the world's only consulting detective. "You'd stake your reputation on it? This isn't just because you've had a lull in cases?"

Sherlock shrugged, "That too, and this looks like it's at least a six."

"Sherlock!" Greg hissed. "I do _not_ care about your stupid ranking system for cases!"

There was a long silence where the two men stared at each other in a silent battle of wills, before Sherlock leaned down and murmured. "Mrs. Dwight was _murdered_. Let me find her killer. No one else is looking."

Greg finally looked away and sank down into his chair. "Fine. I'll put in a good word for you, and see if they'll let you examine the body." Sherlock whooped and charged out of the Detective Inspector's office before he was even properly done speaking. "I make _no_ promises, Sherlock!" Greg called after him, knowing that his words, as always, fell on deaf ears.

John, who had been standing to the side, watching their exchange, stepped forward and watched his flatmate's retreating form for a moment before he said. "You know he was just manipulating you."

Greg shrugged. "Sherlock manipulates everyone, it's what he does. But he's brilliant and we need him, and you were right about him caring."

The ex-army doctor glanced down and met his friend's steady gaze and said, "Some days I believe that, some days I think I just _want_ to believe that." John shook his head for a moment then squared his shoulders. "Right, well I'd better catch up with him or he'll take his own cab there and stick me with the bill for both."

The Detective Inspector nodded in understanding. "Go on. Try to keep him out of trouble, if you can."

John glanced over his shoulder with a wry smile. "Don't ask for miracles."

* * *

Two and a half hours later, they arrived at the Huddersfield morgue. A dour man of average height and build, with light brown eyes and dark blond hair was waiting for them. "Greetings Gentlemen," he began with a nod as they stepped out of the car that had brought them. "My name is Charles McGregor; I am the director of the mortuary. I understand that you come from London, with the recommendation of one Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade."

John smiled warmly and shook the offered hand, while Sherlock peered eagerly over his shoulder, impatient to get to work. "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice," John said, determined that _one_ of them would demonstrate good manners."

"It's no trouble," Mr. McGregor insisted. "I have been authorized to allow you to examine the body of Mrs. Mary Dwight. I feel I must warn you that her official cause of death has been ruled a suicide. The cremation is planned for tomorrow morning."

"For now," Sherlock drawled dismissively, oblivious to John's growing frown.

"It is very kind for you to allow us to re-examine the body," the ex-army doctor continued, elbowing his flatmate sharply in the ribs in the hopes that he would stop fidgeting.

Mr. McGregor nodded. "It never hurts to be absolutely certain in such cases. Her family is extremely troubled by her passing and have been anxious to assist the authorities in any way they can. When Detective Inspector Lestrade contacted our local police station and explained that Mr. Holmes had taken an interest in the details of this case, we were all quite surprised. I know he has a reputation for working difficult, high-profile cases in London, but this seems very open and shut."

"Sherlock likes to examine everything that has to do with his work, and unfortunately death is one of them," John explained. "When he first started working cases in London he spent a great deal of time at St. Bart's morgue both consulting about cases and learning about autopsies. He can tell at a glance whether an injury was caused post-mortem just based on his practical experience." John shrugged casually. Everything he'd said was true, but it was also an excuse. Sherlock would give him no end of hell if he didn't get to examine this body, regardless what anyone else thought of it...and John thought one arrest was more than enough for this year.

"When he heard about Mrs. Dwight," John continued, "he wanted to study her body to see how the impact had affected it, and if he could deduce the angle of her fall. He thought he saw some inconsistencies in the damage to the truck which struck her."

"Yes, Detective Inspector Lestrade mentioned that." Mr. Mcgregor glanced at Sherlock, who looked as though he was ready to come out of his skin with impatience. "Well, I won't keep you any longer, let me show you the facilities."

They turned and made their way inside. They made it to the examination room in one piece, but John nearly had to trip Sherlock to keep him from brushing Mr. McGregor aside. The ex-army doctor had to bite the inside of his lip to keep himself from smiling at Sherlock's childlike energy; he was always this way about a case, but smiling would only encourage him.

"We laid her out on an examination table when we heard you were on your way," Mr. McGregor said as he lead them into the fully equipped facilities. There was a meaningful pause before he added, "The damage was extensive..."

Sherlock was already pulling on gloved and scanning the draped sheet in a predatory fashion when he said, "I examined a body once that had been ground nearly to a pulp in industrial processing equipment. There was a patch of skin that held part of a tattoo that we were able to trace to her ex-boyfriend."

Mr. McGregor blinked slowly before asking, "How, exactly, were you able to do that?"

Sherlock sighed impatiently and replied in a rush of air, "The tattoo had been some idiotic quote the girl was enamored of, and I matched it to the handwriting of the ex-boyfriend. Crimes of passion are so predictable. Have you set out her personal belongings for me as well?"

Mr. McGregor nodded. "Yes, they are on that small table to the side, there. Mr. Lestrade stated you wanted to see them." His voice trailed off as he spoke, revealing his confusion about Sherlock's request.

Sherlock nodded in satisfaction, reached for the expensive looking shoes, and turned both over in his hands. Sherlock made a small sound in the back of his throat, set the shoes down and turned towards the covered body once more. "John, are you coming?"

John allowed himself an amused smile while he pulled on his own pair of gloves. Sherlock's back was turned, thus creating the illusion of privacy. As entertaining as Sherlock's need for an audience could be, this was bound to be some grisly work. He forced himself to take a breath and focus. The good doctor moved to the other side of the table, and together, they drew back the sheet.

The muscles in John's stomach clenched as he fought the impulse to draw in a quick breath at the sight of the body. It was about as bad as he expected, but that didn't make looking at it, at _her_ any easier. There was nothing left of her face, the skull was badly misshapen, and the fractures throughout her skeleton contorted her flesh into unnatural angles. Mrs. Dwight truly appeared _shattered_.

The good doctor looked up and was unsurprised to find Sherlock intently focused on her neck, or what remained of it.

"Turn the head, for me," Sherlock instructed, and John did as he was ordered, using gentle movements so as not to damage the body any further.

Sherlock refocused the light, and knelt down to have a closer look, prodding the flesh gently. "Ha!" he cried, flashing a triumphant smile.

"What is it," Mr. McGregor asked, stepping forward. "What have you found?"

"Look here," Sherlock gestured, "just behind the jaw. That is a bruise in the shape of a thumb."

Mr. McGregor frowned, looked at Sherlock, then back at the body. "Well, it could be I suppose, but Mrs. Dwight's body sustained many bruises in the fall."

Sherlock, as usual, was undeterred. "John, turn the head a bit farther," he ordered.

John did as he was bid, leaning over the body so that he might also see what his brilliant flatmate had spotted.

"Here, on the other side," Sherlock continued, tracing his findings with his finger, "are four longer marks, those came from the fingers on the rest of the hand. Given the size and depth of the bruising, it was probably a man's hand. Mr. Dwight, most likely."

Mr. McGregor paled slightly when he saw the bruising. "Well, I... I don't know. I suppose it's possible, but-"

"Bruising she would have sustained, when grabbed just like this," Sherlock demonstrating by reaching behind Mr. McGregor and closing his hand tightly around the back of his neck. Mr. McGregor's shoulders hunched in surprise and self-defense as Sherlock straightened, forcing him to stand on his toes.

"I believe we should call the New Scotland Yard now, yes?"

"Yes," Mr. McGregor squeaked, and as soon as he did so, Sherlock released him. He fell back hard on his heels and rubbed the back of his neck, looking dubiously at the world's only consulting detective. "I'll go make the call," he muttered, giving Sherlock a wide birth as he left the room.

"Was that _really_ necessary, " John scolded, gently settling the body back into place.

Sherlock turned his piercing towards his blogger. "Our best chance to get to the truth is to act quickly."

John glanced down at the remains of Mrs. Dwight, and pressed his lips together in a grim line. He couldn't argue with that, especially not if this _was_ murder.

* * *

"What do you mean you won't reopen the case?!" Sherlock cried indignantly into his phone. He was pacing with frantic energy up and down the hotel room John had booked for them. The world's only consulting detective wasn't about to leave the area on the dawn of such an intriguing case.

"Sherlock, you don't have enough evidence," Lestrade said patiently, on the other end of the line. "People fight, Mr. Dwight was up front about the fact that they'd been fighting the night she died. Her toxicology screen showed a blood alcohol level of .5 percent. She sent her husband a goodbye text just before she's reported to have fallen. It is generally believed that Mrs. Dwight fought with her husband, got drunk, and leapt off the Scammonden Bridge."

"A suicide text? Tell me you're not _that_ stupid Lestrade," Sherlock all but pleaded. "If they were fighting and she felt hurt and wanted to get back at him, or even if she loved him and thought he was too good for her, she would've written a letter. Even people who think their lives are worthless recognize that ending a life, even a worthless one _means_ something to people. No, if there's no note it's likely an accident, if there is one it likely a suicide, and a text just screams 'I was murdered!'"

"Sherlock, the official investigation is over, the cremation's tomorrow. I am not going to put that poor women's family though any more on so little evidence, no matter how brilliant you are."

Sherlock's face hardened and he grew frighteningly still. "Fine." His voice was hard and clipped.

John just barely heard Greg shout, "Sherlock, don't do anything stu-" before Sherlock ended the call.

Sherlock ran a hand through his wild curls, shoved his phone into his pocket, and turned away from John, walking towards the door of their hotel room.

"Where are you going?" John asked, standing from his position on the second bed.

The world's only consulting detective looked coolly over his shoulder. "Mr. Dwight's house."

"What!" John cried, alarmed. "Why? You heard Greg; we're finished."

"I _heard_ that I needed more evidence," Sherlock retorted, turning to fully face John.

"How do you even intend to do this, Sherlock? He's probably at home getting ready for the funeral of his _Wife_."

A slow smirk curled its way onto Sherlock's face and John groaned, putting his face into his hands. "Who did you bribe?"

"It's not always about money, surprisingly enough," Sherlock drawled. There is always someone in every village, city or town, who knows what you need to know, and will tell you without even thinking about it. You just need to know who to ask."

John lifted his head and glared at Sherlock through his fingers. "And?" he insisted sharply, taking his hands away from his face.

"And while you were arranging for accommodations _I_ was calling a florist. I wanted to send an arrangement to the Dwight household. Not only did she let slip the address, which I already knew from glancing at Mrs. Dwights file in the mortuary, but she stated the arrangements would be better sent to Mr. Dwight senior, since Mr. Dwight has taken the children with him to stay at his parents for the funeral."

"I'm not going with you, Sherlock, you're leaving way too much to chance. What if there's a silent alarm? What if he comes home for something? What if your just _wrong_?"

Sherlock arched an eyebrow and loomed over John, but the ex-army doctor would not be cowed. "I mean it. Nothing in our deal said that I would get arrested for you."

" _If_ I find nothing at the Dwight household to convince you," Sherlock pressed, "then you can go."

"Go?" John echoed, not following.

"I will release you from your obligations as my blogger, while also keeping my promise to pay for the remainder of your sister's treatment."

John's heart skipped a beat. Free? Sherlock would free him if he was wrong? No more beastly flatmate? No more 3:00am wake up calls? No more running pell-mell all over London chasing dubious characters? Really? ...That should be good news... He should feel relived, not uneasy... and certainly not disappointed...

The ex-army doctor shook himself and squared his shoulders. "Deal," he said firmly, putting out his hand for the world's only consulting detective to shake. Sherlock grinned, took it, and pulled his blogger out into the night.

* * *

Just as they'd heard, the house appeared to be empty. Still, Sherlock spent ten minutes examining the parameter to check for any alarms that would cut their search short. He'd paused meaningfully a few times, scanning the rooftop, the bushes, and the trees, but he'd never said anything about what he may or may not have seen.

At last he plucked a supple pin out of his hair and picked the lock while John tried not to be surprised that he hadn't expected the hair pin. He'd certainly lived with the man long enough to know he was _always_ armed. Why not also always be ready to pick a lock?

They crept into the house through the side kitchen door. John squinted in the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust, while Sherlock blazed ahead as if he had sonar. The good doctor managed, just barely to keep up as Sherlock prowled through the kitchen, then the living room. He didn't stop or seem to examine anything, he was just scanning the area, looking for...well, with Sherlock he was looking for whatever he had deduced might be here.

They were approaching the stairs when Sherlock ducked his head into a small half bath, grinned, and started to dash for the stairs.

"What?" John asked, glancing into the bathroom, then back up at Sherlock's rapidly retreating form. "What did you find?"

Sherlock leaned back at a dangerous angle, hanging onto the railing for balance, so that he could tip his head over one shoulder and speak to John in a near whisper.

"What I came for." He flashed John a grin, then straightened and dashed the rest of the way upstairs.

John looked between the stairs and the bathroom for a few more moments before nearly shouting, "If what we need is in the bathroom, _why_ are you running that way?!"

"Come, John," Sherlock replied, in a much calmer tone, from the second floor. The ex-army doctor rolled his eyes and moved up the stairs to join his crazy flatmate. He found the world's only consulting detective, hunched over a computer in what appeared to be a home office, typing furiously at the keyboard. John leaned over his shoulder, pressing in close so that he could see. There was no danger of making Sherlock uncomfortable, he was too focused on his work, and he didn't seem to have any need for personal space.

John's eyes darted over the screen as Sherlock worked, trying to keep up. Whether he had hacked into the computer in front of him, or simply turned it on, he seemed to be rapidly scrolling through the files inside it, digging deeper and deeper into its core memory. Sherlock was opening and closing things so quickly that John had little chance of identifying them before he moved on to the next one. He wanted to ask Sherlock again what he was looking for, but he knew he would receive no answer, not when Sherlock was closing in on something.

"Ha!" Sherlock cried softly, his fingers dancing even faster over the keys.

"What?" John asked again, his curiosity finally getting the better of him.

"I'm in his security system," Sherlock explained, beginning to open video and picture files. "Very high-tech for a nondescript middle aged man in the shipping industry."

"How is his security system going to help you?" John pressed, "And _how_ is it connected to the bathroom?"

Sherlock's gaze never left the screen as he spoke. "One of the files I passed over detailed shipment schedules. That combined with this high tech security system hints that Mr. Dwight is involved with something illegal."

"Drugs?" John asked, pressing in closer.

"Don't know. I will soon enough, but the bathroom provided me with a more interesting line of inquiry that will yield results much more quickly."

John almost groaned in frustration. "Sherlock, explain this to me in a way a _normal_ human could understand."

"High tech security systems and mysterious shipping schedules form a dubious picture, but the camera hidden in the _bathroom_ forms a much clearer picture. Think about it, Mrs. Dwight was in her early thirties with two children. I was able to ascertain their ages from her file at the morgue, but even if I wasn't, it's safe to assume they are still young, unless she had them in her teens."

John paled and gripped Sherlock's shoulder tightly. "You don't mean... was he looking at his _children_?!"

Sherlock did pause then, to glare meaningfully over his shoulder at his blogger. "Once again, John, you miss everything of importance. Mr. Dwight fell victim to a much more common temptation." Without looking back at the computer, Sherlock opened the file he had just come to, and pictures of a half dressed teenaged girl filled the screen. They weren't blatantly erotic. She was dressing, or using the facilities, or even examining herself in the mirror of the bathroom downstairs. "Mr. Dwight is sexually fixated on his babysitter," Sherlock concluded with triumph. "Given these pictures, it's very likely that she's still a minor. It could have been Mr. Dwight's illegal activities that caused the fight with Mrs. Dwight, but given that Mr. Dwight is also legitimately involved in the shipping business, and these files were buried much deeper, I'm guessing she stumbled across them and had be silenced."

John's face remained rigid with anger and disgust, and Sherlock smiled coyly. "Well?" Sherlock continued. "Have I convinced you?"

The ex-army doctor's steely gaze met that of his companion. "Break this thing down, we're taking it with us."

Sherlock grinned. "That's the spirit!" He quickly secured the laptop, it's power cord, and a few interesting looking flash drives that had been stored near it. Tucking the package under his arm, Sherlock ushered John silently back out onto the street.

They walked along, each lost in their separate thoughts, until Sherlock reached out and linked his arm with John's. He started to look up but Sherlock hissed, "Don't," and he turned his gaze back to the road before them. After a few moments, Sherlock spoke again, "We're being followed."

A chill prickled along John's spine. "You're sure?"

In his peripheral vision, John could see the scowl spreading across Sherlock's face. "Sure enough. When we pass that alleyway up ahead, we're going to duck into it."

John nodded slightly to show his assent. He thought they would make a sudden dash for it, and hope to lose their pursuer with the element of surprise. Instead, Sherlock gently nudged them to the side so that when they came to the mouth of the alleyway, they were almost inside it already. John's muscles tensed in anticipation, then in surprise when Sherlock suddenly pressed him back against the wall, looming uncomfortably close. The ex-army doctor looked up and drew in a sharp breath as Sherlock leaned in. _Why_ had they stopped like this, still half out of the ally? They were supposed to be running, not getting ready to make out like a couple of teenagers!

Realization finally dawned as Sherlock's arms crept around John's back and drew him deeper into the alleyway, and out of sight of the main street. As soon as they were concealed they both took off running. Hopefully their tail, if they were being followed, would think that Sherlock and John were not aware of them, that their stop in the ally was exactly as it had first appeared to be. It made sense, as a decoy, considering how often John was obliged to announce, 'He's not my boyfriend!'

Sherlock cut into a side street, then back into another alley a little ways down, with John right behind him. They stopped to scale an old fire escape and dash across the roof of a long, narrow building. John was ready to go to ground, wait things out on the roof, but Sherlock didn't slow. He dived over the other side of the building and disappeared from sight.

John sighed in exasperation and prepared to do the same. He faltered when he peered over the edge. There was no stairway on this side... Sherlock was sliding dangerously fast down a _drainage pipe_! He drew in breath to argue, and let it out again in a frustrated rush. Sherlock was too far away to hear him now, and he wouldn't stop even if he could.

John started to throw a leg over the side of the roof, planning to pick is way down a bit slower, using the drainage pipe as an anchor, when movement flashed in the corner of his vision. He stilled and swiveled his head around to see better. Sure enough a hunched figure was creeping up on Sherlock from the next alleyway over. Either there was more than one person following them, or they'd been cut off somehow. This person was _fast_ , too fast.

"Look out!" John cried, scrambling over the edge of the roof in a vain attempt to get to his friend in time.

Sherlock's head jerked to the side for a moment, then fully around as the smaller figure closed on him and pressed a sweet smelling cloth over his face. Sherlock jerked away but when he felt the prick of the needle, he knew it was too late. His vision swam as he stumbled back, something flashed in the moonlight and a deep, sultry voice murmured, "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes."

* * *

A voice broke through the darkness. "I've got him, really. We'll be fine."

Sherlock felt as if the whole world were wrapped in thick cotton, and he tried, unsuccessfully, to move.

Warm hands picked up his own and began, gently, to clean them. He'd suffered some minor abrasions in the slide down the side of the building, but that hadn't been important at the time; speed had been paramount. The firm, but gentle fingers pressed a sanitizing solution into his skin that burned where the skin had broken. A cool damp cloth was run carefully and deliberately over each hand, and between the fingers. Whoever was tending to him was thorough. The hands left for a moment, then returned with a soft, dry cloth, pressing insistently into his skin to soak up the excess moisture. This was followed by the gentle application of an ointment, probably a antibiotic ointment, that drain pipe _had_ been a bit rusty. When his hands were lifted so that bandages might be applied, Sherlock managed to turn his head and open his eyes.

John glanced down at his face and smiled in relief. "Hey," he murmured, his hands continuing their diligent work.

Sherlock blinked and his fingers twitched in John's grip. He managed, with some effort, to bring his tongue forward and wet his lips. At length he rasped, "What are you doing?"

John looked at him again, slightly perplexed as he secured the bandages on one hand and reached for the other. "I'm bandaging your wounds."

"...Why?"

John's eyebrows furrowed closer together and he frowned. "Because you could get a nasty infection otherwise," he spoke slowly, as if he were speaking to a child. "I'm surprised you're awake already. You were injected with a very heavy dose of sedatives."

Sherlock scrunched his eyes shut for a moment and murmured, "After periods of sustained, high dosage use, protracted tolerance develops. Tolerance should diminish over time, but can still remain remarkably high depending on individual body chemistry." He blinked his eyes open to see that John's amused smile had returned.

"I see your cognitive recall is operating just fine," the good doctor replied, securing the bandaged on Sherlock's second hand, before sitting on the side of the bed, his hand still resting on Sherlock's forearm.

"We're in hospital," Sherlock observed, moving his head slowly to prevent the room from spinning.

John nodded. "Yes, you were unconscious by the time I reached you, so I called for an ambulance. I did some rescue breathing too, because your respirations seemed dangerously sluggish." Then, as an afterthought, John added, "Whoever they were made off with the laptop."

Sherlock made a face. He had surmised as much already, but that kind of theft indicated that this was more than a simple murder. He'd have another chance at this game. He mused aloud, "The rag that was pressed into my face was soaked in chloroform." Was the rag only a distraction, or had it been meant as insurance on the plan to sedate him? This was possibly irrelevant, but he couldn't be certain.

John's frown deepened. "I'm glad you woke up so quickly. They still want to keep you overnight for observation, though."

Sherlock's gaze at last fell to the cumbersome medical boot that came up to just below John's left knee, and the crutches propped against the side of the bed. "Broken ankle?" he asked, raising his eyes to meet John's gaze.

John shook his head. "No, but nearly. It's a very bad sprain, and they want me in this thing for two weeks, just to be safe. Think we can avoid chases for that long?"

The ex-army doctors tone was amused, but the world's only consulting detective was frowning. John was a doctor, _and_ he had been trained by the army. He should know how to scale a building and land with the proper support...unless he was rushing. Had he rushed to Sherlock's side after shouting his warning? Had he stayed with him all this time? "You didn't need to hurt yourself," he mumbled, still feeling a bit foggy from the sedatives.

"I wasn't trying to; I was worried about you. It's a good thing I _was_ there too. When the paramedics arrived your oxygen levels were uncomfortably low. They gave you Naloxone, but the cocktail you received was mostly barbiturates." John squeezed Sherlock's forearm lightly. "I'm glad you're alright."

Sherlock frowned. "You didn't _need_ to help me; your sister's treatment would still have been paid for; I've made arrangements to ensure that." John raised an eyebrow, but Sherlock pressed on, "I always keep my promises, assuming I'm not lying when I make them in the first place."

Wry amusement was painted on John's face, but the eyes that locked with Sherlock's were still and serious. "I wasn't about to put you in danger for my sister's sake. I wasn't even thinking about her, to be honest." When Sherlock's frown deepened John finally chuckled. "I care about you too, you know."

Sherlock fixed him with a weak glare. "That could be dangerous for your health."

John's smile was undeterred. His thumb had begun rubbing soothing circles into the skin beneath it. "You're not as much of an ass as you'd like people to think. You like to go on about being a high functioning sociopath. Thing is, sociopaths aren't born that way. I've done the research. Sociopaths often start out as very caring people and are made the way they are because of how _much_ they care and how much they are betrayed." John shook his head, looking serious. "I don't think you're a sociopath. I think you just act that way because it feels like it's less of a risk."

Sherlock fixed him with a weak glare. "You're quite sure of that, are you?"

The good doctor's warm smile returned. "It took me a while to get there, but yes. Yes, I am."

Sherlock grumbled a bit, and looked away. The gentle pressure of John's had on his forearm never wavered.


	12. Not My Boyfriend

**Greetings lovely readers! Thank you very much to everyone who has left reviews, favorited, and/or followed this story! I'm always glad to hear what people think.**

 **As per usual, this chapter is based on a cannon Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Sherlock story, feel free to guess which one. I hope you enjoy!**

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Chapter 11: Not My Boyfriend

John sucked in a quick lungful of air, and forced himself to roll over onto his side. He reached up and ran a hand over his face, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. His heart hammered in his ears as he pulled himself into a sitting position and threw his legs over the side of the bed. John griped the side of his bed tightly and blinked in the dim light of his bedroom. He'd been having a nightmare...

The good doctor used to suffer from nightmares frequently. They usually centered around his time in the army or, more frequently, concern for his sister. He couldn't quite place what this one had been about. Even though he had just woken up, it was fading quickly.

John stretched his arms wide and yawned, tipping his head over his right shoulder towards the stairs and the sound of music. Sherlock was practicing a sweet sounding waltz. A smile edged its way onto John's lips and he reached for one of his crutches. He was finally out of the clumsy medical boot, but his ankle was still tender. He used the crutches more for balance up and down the stairs, then for anything else. John suspected that in two more weeks he would be back to his old self.

John leaned heavily on his crutch and the handrail as he made his way down the stairs. He'd been woken so many times by Sherlock torturing his instrument; it was nice to hear a well composed song.

The good doctor made his way over to the sofa, wishing for a cup of tea but not quite having the energy to fix one for himself. Sherlock never faltered in his playing, bringing the waltz to a tidy conclusion once John was settled, leaning back on one of the armrests, with his feet stretched out on body of the sofa.

The world's only consulting detective gracefully set his violin down on the desk and began to methodically rosin his bow. "It must have been bad tonight."

"Hm?" John asked, tilting his head to one side, as he watched his flatmate.

"You usually settle back down when I play this waltz."

"You play for me?" John asked, disbelieving.

Sherlock shrugged. "At least once a week since you arrived. Your tossing and turning was distracting." A wry smile crept its way onto John's face until Sherlock added, "It was two or three times a week until I started using this waltz."

John leaned forward, his curiosity piqued. "What is it called?"

Sherlock held his bow out and studied it in the glow of the streetlights below them. "A waltz for John, I suppose."

A sudden heat crept over the back of John's neck as realization dawned. "You...composed that waltz...for me?"

Another shrug. "As I said, you were distracting me from my work."

John snorted in smug amusement, pleased that he'd repaid Sherlock some of the frustration the world's only consulting detective had caused him.

"What would you like to hear?"

John turned his head to face his flatmate, confused. "Excuse me?"

Sherlock turned, silhouetting his body in the light from the street, but John could still make out his face. "What should I play for you?" Sherlock repeated.

"I, uh, don't really know much classical music," John confessed with a shrug.

Sherlock tipped his head to one side, causing some of the light from their windows to spill over John's face. "I can play modern songs as well."

John considered for a moment before he replied, "Well..." John hesitated. It was only autumn, but he doubted Sherlock would complain about a song being out of season. "How about 'Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas?'"

He could just make out Sherlock's brow arching in the dim light. "Your favorite carol. Very well."

The good doctor smiled as he slid down on the sofa and pulled the blanket down from off the back, making himself comfortable. He knew Sherlock hadn't been asking _if_ this was his favorite carol, merely confirming that John's request _was_ his favorite carol. Sherlock probably even knew what it meant to him, too. The song reminded John of safety and family, an image he treasured because he so rarely had it. Hearing that song as a child had made him think that everything really could be alright, if he tried hard enough. He had felt a rare sense of peace. It was never a story John liked to talk about, because of how personal it was...

Watching Sherlock take up his instrument once more, John realized that he really didn't mind if Sherlock had deduced the whole story. For all his temper and bad manners, Sherlock wasn't the type of person to use this story against him Sherlock could be a holy terror and utterly disregarded the opinions of others, but John had never seen him cause pain just for the sake of causing pain. That, more than anything else, bolstered John in his opinion that there was more to the world's only consulting detective than the beast he seemed to want the world to think he was..

* * *

John awoke to the smell of hot tea and old papers. He blinked open his eyes and smiled at the steaming mug of tea and the scone on the coffee table. He was still on the sofa. The good doctor rolled into a sitting position and stretched, causing the blanket he'd wrapped around himself to fall to his waist.

"Mrs. Hudson was up just a minute ago," Sherlock murmured from his position on the floor. He was surrounded by small towers of boxes and piles of papers on all sides.

John smirked as he reached out and brought the mug to his lips. "Don't worry, I wasn't about to assume you were going soft on me. Do you even _know_ where the kettle is?"

Sherlock snorted with amusement, his gaze never leaving the papers he had clutched in his hands.

"What are you looking over?" John asked, setting his tea down and reaching for the scone.

"Old cases," Sherlock replied in a distant tone, tilting one paper in his hand to get a different perspective on it. He'd gone over his files before, but he just had so _many_ of them. It had taken him years to see the threads of the power behind the crimes of London, the hints of the spider in its web. He knew before John had ever come to him that he wanted the unearthing of this 'spider,' to be his final achievement. He suspected the case of Ms. Adeline, and Mrs. Dwight were connected in important ways to his finally goal...but he couldn't see _how_ yet.

Sherlock had stewed over his recent cases for the last two weeks before deciding to exhume his older ones and look for clues that might have been invisible to him before. It was somewhat surprising that his excavations, which had quickly spilled into the living room, hadn't woken John. Not that he particularly tried to be quiet, nothing of the sort. No, John must still be catching up on sleep debt from Mrs. Dwight's case.

"Tell me about them," John urged, pulling the blanket high over his shoulders as his t-shirt and pajama pants did little to keep out the morning chill.

Sherlock turned to frown at him. " _All_ of them?"

John shrugged. "If you want to. It'll be more material for the blog and it will keep you occupied."

Sherlock considered this for a moment. Retelling the story would cause him to look at the cases in a new light, and might aid him in his private search for the as of yet unnamed spider. He glanced at the paper in his hand, which turned out to be an old medical record that was pivotal in the solving of his very first case. His first case hardly seemed relevant to this last, larger one...but it was best to leave no stone unturned. He had so little time left, rushing would only make him sloppy.

"Very well," he said at last, holding up the papers in his hand for John to take. "What do you see here?

John took the papers and studied them for a moment. "Looks like the records of a live birth, healthy male baby, and the records for a stillborn birth," the good doctor's voice softened as he spoke, his sorrow at a death decades old and well beyond anyone's ability to change evident in his voice. Sherlock bit his tongue as he squashed the impulse to comment. This foolish ex-army doctor would save the whole world if he could.

"Anything else?" Sherlock prompted, urging John to look more closely at the papers in his hands.

John stared until he thought he might get a migraine then scrunched his eyes closed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "No," he said, sounding a bit defeated. "They look perfectly normal to me." He peeked up at Sherlock and, surprisingly, a smile was tugging at the edges of his lips. "What am I missing?"

"Examine where the doctor noted the state of the baby," Sherlock said softly, unused to having such a willing audience. Usually he had to brow beat (literally and metaphorically) people into seeing reason.

His blogger took a deep breath, and bent his head once more to review the documents in his hand. Sherlock could see the confusion and doubt warring on John's face until, suddenly, clarity dawned. John looked up, hesitant, and pointed to the papers in his hands. "There are some odd marks here, where the doctor noted the state of the newborn. It looks like they were about to mark them both as stillborn births. " He looked back at the papers once more before adding. "They were both born on the same day, to the same doctor. Maybe the stillborn shook him up and he was a bit sloppy in his documentation?"

"Not bad," Sherlock replied with a nod.

John perked up a bit. "Really?"

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed. "You missed everything of real importance to the case, but at least you're thinking."

John growled in irritation and thrust the papers back at Sherlock. "What's the story, then?" he asked impatiently.

Sherlock smiled to himself and took his time straightening the papers before he replied. "When I was at university, I was much the same as I am now," he said at last. "So it must come as no surprise that I had little contact with others outside my classes. It might have continued that way indefinitely if it weren't for the adder."

"Adder?" John asked, leaning forward and tipping his head to one side in confusion. "What does an adder have to do with these medical records? Those births took place decades before you could have been at Uni, unless you're about to tell me that you've mastered the art of time travel."

"Patience," Sherlock advised with a smug smile, knowing he had his audience hooked. "I was walking past the southernmost dormitories, which curved past a small bit of woodland on campus. I was practicing my skills of observation heavily in those days, although I wasn't sure yet what I would do with them. As such, I noticed both the trail of an adder that had recently passed by, as well as signs that a person had fallen off the road and into the woods, knocking out some branches as they went. I looked over the edge of the embankment into the beginning of the woods and saw a body slumped in the leaves, so close to the small wall of earth that I don't think anyone would have seen it if they didn't have a strong sense of deductive reasoning, or they knew what they were looking for.

"I scrambled down the hill and turned the body over. It was another student, given the books strewn on the ground not far from him. I checked his legs and found two puncture marks just above his right ankle. Adders, as you know, aren't usually fatal, but this was a bad bite, and he was showing signs of an acute allergic reaction. I called campus security and he was immediately taken to hospital."

Sherlock paused to frown at his blogger. "Get that smile off your face John, I know what you're thinking. This wasn't about charity. By the time I'd confirmed my theory I'd thoroughly contaminated the scene and could have been charged with murder if I didn't call for help."

"Naturally," John agreed in a tone that made it perfectly clear that he didn't believe _any_ of Sherlock's excuses. His smile stayed defiantly in place. "What was his name?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's defiant attitude. "Victor Trevor, although that information is entirely irrelevant. _Anyway_ , once the paramedics arrived, I went on my way and thought no more about it. That, is, however, until he showed up at my flat. He had some misplaced gratitude to express."

John barked with laughter. "I bet that's exactly what you told him, isn't it?"

Sherlock shrugged. "More or less. He absolutely refused to be put off. Thankfully, he didn't get in the way of my work."

John nodded, still smiling. "Wouldn't want anyone to change your priorities."

Sherlock's eye twitched, but he refused to be baited. "He was the first person, outside of my family, to genuinely appreciate my particular skill set. He continually set the most plebian logic puzzles before me and was always shocked at the speed with which I dispatched them. I began to tell him my deductions so that I could demonstrate what an appropriate challenge actually was."

"You were friends," John interjected.

Another shrug. "Well, when he discovered that his father was in some unusual distress he asked me for help."

John frowned and leaned forward a bit in his seat. "What was the matter?"

"He was being blackmailed. All Victor knew was that his father had become sullen and withdrawn in a most unusual fashion. Once I arrived at his father's house with him, and saw the open check book in his study I suspected the truth. When I assembled the torn remnants of a half burned letter, I knew."

John leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and his chin in his hands. "What did the letter say?"

"Most of it was burned, but there was just enough left to make out its meaning." Sherlock patted the ground around him for a moment before his hand darted into a thick stack of papers and retrieved one with a blank back. Turning the blank side up Sherlock plucked a pencil from behind his ear, and scrawled on the paper for a moment before handing it over to John. "It looked, more or less, like that."

John glanced down at the paper in his hands. Sherlock had used his pencil to smudge much of the page, and only a few words were even legible. It read: _I know...,Doctor...fae._ The legible words were spaced out wide apart, indicating that none of them were likely to be part of the same sentence.

The ex-army doctor studied the replication of the letter for a few minutes, rearranging their order, turning the paper around, and anything else he could think of to wring understanding from the clue Sherlock had presented to him. When his attempts to fold the paper, as though the right combination of folds would somehow result in a new message resulted in Sherlock's unbridled laughter, John huffed in frustration and straightened the paper on his knee. "I know this will feel like a stupid question in a moment," John began, "but _how_ does this point to blackmail?"

Still shaking with repressed laughter, Sherlock gestured at the papers Johns still held. "Mr. Trevor Senior, had been a doctor for the majority of his adult life. By the time I met him, he had retired, but Victor had told me of his career many times. Even for a doctor he had retired early. They lived a seemingly middle class lifestyle, yet Victor went to a prestigious University with no student loans or financial aid. Also, the books I had seen the day we met were new, not used. Projecting Victor's family's likely income, they still wouldn't be able to live _that_ comfortably without drawing off some sort of family money, or some supplemental income."

"And the letter?" John pressed again, impatient to see how everything connected.

"Fae, or fairy stories of babies switched at birth are not uncommon. This taken in combination with the family wealth, the open check-book that had impressions of a recently made out check for a large sum, payable to "cash," and the sudden behavioral changes indicated that Mr. Trevor senior had switched two babies at birth, been paid handsomely for his actions, and had now been found out and was being blackmailed."

John's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "There are _some_ other explanations, surely."

Sherlock nodded. "Six strong possibilities at least, but once I struck upon my first theory, and saw Mr. Trevor Senior faint mid-explanation, I assumed I had the right idea."

"Why do have this picture in my head of you storming into their house, barreling through the study, kneeling at the fireplace, assembling the letter and blurting out your theory all before you had been properly introduced?" John asked with a wry smile.

"Obviously." Sherlock confirmed. "I had a case to solve and observing unnecessary social niceties would only have wasted time."

John covered his mouth with his hand to smother his laughter. "Right. Of course. What happened _after_ he fainted?"

"Victor and I moved him to a couch and revived him. Once he was conscious again he verbally confirmed my suppositions and clarified the specifics. He had been working labor and delivery early in his career, and as is the case with most middle class doctors, his salary did little to mitigate his student loans, especially when compounded with malpractice insurance. He was the doctor in attendance on a very busy night when Mrs. Clemons gave birth to a stillborn son. This was her third failed pregnancy and she was beside herself.

"The Clemons were a wealthy family, and so her husband, Mr. Clemons offered Victor's father an exorbitant amount of money if he could…'fix' the situation."

"Couldn't they have adopted?" John asked. "Especially if they were as wealthy as you say?"

"Persons of wealth and/or supposedly distinguished lineage can get fussy about bloodlines. Mr. Clemons wanted to report to his family that his wife had delivered successfully without the supposed shame of either another failed pregnancy, or having to adopt someone from outside the family."

John's features twisted with disgust, wishing he could be surprised. He'd seen too much of the world, even before he met Sherlock to disbelieve what the world's only consulting detective told him now. He thought he saw matching distaste in Sherlock's features and wondered if that was because of the Clemons actions, or their idiocy (because everyone was an idiot according to Sherlock), or both…

"As I said before, it was a busy night, particularly for labor and delivery. Victor's father was also overseeing the labor of a very young homeless woman, who had repeatedly protested that she would not, could not keep her baby. He went to check on her after speaking with Mr. Clemons and found her very near delivery. He helped her with the final effort, and as soon as the baby was out, he pronounced its breathing was distressed, cut the cord, and rushed it out of the room. He cornered a nurse who had just come out of surgery and demanded assistance.

"They cleaned up the baby together, and determined that any breathing difficulties which may have occurred were now resolved. Victor's father asked the nurse to wash and dress the baby for him while he attended to the mother of a stillborn. It was so busy that night, the nurse didn't question him. Victor's father then returned to Mr. Clemons and retrieved the stillborn, which Mr. Clemons volunteered without question. Victor's father returned the young homeless woman, and pronounced that her child had not survived. He told us that she was relieved, and declined even to hold the stillborn boy.

"Her child had also been a boy, and so it was an easy thing for Victor's father to collect him from the nurse he'd been left with and present him to Mr. and Mrs. Clemons. He repeated many times how much the boys' mother had not wanted him, and how he had really been helping the child. I imagine he said as much to Mr. and Mrs. Clemons in an attempt to ameliorate his conscience."

John glanced down at the birth records, which still rested in Sherlock's lap. "I imagine these are proof of the switched babies, but exactly, how do they factor in?"

Sherlock nodded at the papers. "The son, George Clemons, grew up wild and reckless. He wasted money, abused drugs and alcohol, and, I was told, fathered five illegitimate children by the time he was twenty five. Victor's father discovered this when, two months after George's 'parents' had disowned him he secured these birth records in an attempt to uncover the truth, and to profit from it. The documents listed Victor's father as the attending at both births, and George was able to observe the truth. Two weeks later he delivered copies of these birth records and a threatening letter to Victor's father. He demanded a monthly income from the retired doctor that would bankrupt him in three years."

"How did George even know it was a _possibility_ that he was switched at birth?" John asked, utterly lost.

"After one too many _indiscretions_ his parents informed him of his true parentage. I assume they intended to discourage further misbehavior by insinuating that a cutting George off would be no hardship for them, as he was not _actually_ their child. He either didn't listen, or didn't care. When he found the threat realized, he meandered to the hospital where he was born, and charmed the documents out of a young records clerk."

"Damn," John muttered, running a hand over his face. This story was layers upon layers of ugliness…but he saw no malicious gleam in Sherlock's eyes. He was just telling the story as it was. "What happened next?"

" George died in a car accident three days after I visited the Trevor household," Sherlock replied, gathering up the papers as the story wound down. "As far as I know they were never blackmailed again."

"Did you and Victor finish school together?" John asked, wondering if Sherlock and Victor had stayed in touch. If they had it was probably through e-mails or texts, because Sherlock's work had obviously become the all-consuming force in his life.

Sherlock shrugged, his face carefully impassive. "I imagine we graduated the same year, but I didn't see him much after the truth about the blackmailing came out. My talents were no longer a source of fascination for him Given his elevated respirations, muscle tension, and furtive eye movements the few times we did speak afterwards, I deduced that I, and my deductive reasoning, now represented an unpleasant reminder of his family history."

John's face had crumpled with sympathy. Sherlock, naturally, observed this, and because he found such sentiment oppressive, he rushed to complete his story. "He did inherit a good portion of his family's money, when his father fell ill and died a year later. Most likely his father's pre-existing heart condition was aggravated by the stress of his past."

The ex-army doctor swallowed hard and forced himself to look down at the papers around them. Sherlock had lost his friend because of his gift, because of his brilliant mind. John knew that the world's only consulting detective had spent several years in the throes of addiction to heroin and cocaine when he was younger. Had that happened right after University? He didn't know many of the details of Sherlock's life, but not for the first time he was struck with how...lonely it seemed.

John looked up and found Sherlock busily sorting through paper, just as he had been when John woke up. Was he really that unmoved? Somehow, John doubted it. There was a sharpness to Sherlock's movements now, a slight jerkiness. John was _no_ consulting detective, but maybe he didn't have to be. "I'm sorry about your friend," he said softly.

Sherlock stilled for a moment, but didn't turn his head to meet John's steady gaze. At length he said, "I don't have friends, John. Not only are they tedious, but in my line of work they are a liability."

A warm hand on his shoulder brought Sherlock's pale blue eyes around to meet John's darker ones. "I'm still sorry," John repeated, squeezing his flatmate's shoulder gently. They held each other's gazes for several long, silent moments before the sounds of Mrs. Hudson's footfalls on the stairs caused them to turn and separate.

"My, but this place is dusty," she said cheerily, sweeping into the room with a plate of sandwiches and tea. "What sort of project are your boys working on? You've been at it all morning."

Sherlock and John spoke simultaneously.

"Nothing," Sherlock replied, turning back to his papers.

"Sherlock was just telling me about some old cases of his," John said. They looked at each other again; Sherlock was glaring and John was smiling unabashedly.

Mrs. Hudson smiled also, amused. "It's good that your spending some of this quiet time together. Too many couples get too caught up in their day to day lives, and don't remember the important little things that keep a relationship going." She brushed off her apron and started making her way back towards the door. "I'll just leave you to it, then."

John stared after he retreating back, open mouthed, only just managing to call after her, "He's not my boyfriend!"

"I notice that you've never denied that your gay," Sherlock rumbled in an amused baritone.

John looked over his shoulder at him and narrowed his eyes. "Right. I'm done trying to comfort you now." He stood, wrapped the blanket around him for warmth and grabbed himself a sandwich.

It did not escape Sherlock's notice, however, that when John returned a few minutes later to pour

himself some tea, he poured a mug for Sherlock as well, before returning to his room. The

world's only consulting detective reached out a took a sip, letting it warm him.


	13. Closer

**Greetings my lovely readers. I don't thinks this author's note will be quite up to snuff, but that's what happens when I have to work overtime...**

 **Anyway, many thanks to everyone who has left reviews, favorited, and/or followed this story! Your support makes my day. ^_^ No case in this chapter, but I hope you enjoy!**

 **Trigger Warnings: Self-destructive slightly self-injurious behavior in this chapter.**

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Chapter 12: Closer

John rested his elbows on the desk, and placed his face in his hands. He was in his room, trying to make some progress on his blog. There was a lull in cases at the moment, but there were plenty of past cases he hadn't written up yet. Perhaps the case of the Wild Goose Chase? The dead body in the locked room? There were more than a few interesting scams Sherlock had unearthed in the last few months...

The ex-army doctor sighed long and loud, because nothing he could think of to write appealed to him right now. He enjoyed writing in general, and Sherlock's cases were always interesting, but something was off today; his heart just wasn't in it.

A crash echoed from the lower floor and John turned to stare at the door of his bedroom. Earlier this morning, Sherlock had all but ordered him out of his way, and John had retreated upstairs. It wasn't exactly unusual for him to be ordered out because he was inadvertently interfering with one experiment or another, but something about the crazed look he had seen in Sherlock's eyes had bothered him...The good doctor was beginning to suspect the world's only consulting detective was on a case, one that he had not been included in.

This exclusion in and of itself wasn't that unusual, Sherlock was often too excited by the prospect of a good case to stop and wait for his blogger to arrive, but that had never stopped Sherlock from dragging John headlong into all of his cases at some point... Or maybe John had only assumed that he was included in all of Sherlock's cases? The idea that he wasn't shouldn't bother him nearly as much as it did.

Another crash prompted John to rise from his seat and tromp down the stairs, grateful to finally be free of crutches and ace bandages. The first thing he noticed on his way down, was that he couldn't see the floor. Everything was covered with paper, boxes, string, and mementos from old cases. The only light from the room filtered in from the windows, which had been left open, welcoming a chilly breeze into the house. Sherlock stood on the coffee table in what John assumed were his sleeping clothes and robe, turning around very slowly, staring at everything, and muttering quietly to himself. John shivered at the image. It was a dark and disturbing version of the cozy morning they had spent together reviewing the case of Victor and his father.

"Sherlock, maybe it's time you had some sleep, hm?" John suggested in his most soothing, reassuring doctor voice. He frowned when Sherlock didn't seem to hear him, and started to pick his way through to mess towards his flatmate.

Sherlock was not in the least deterred from his course of action. Of course he had heard John, his ears still worked. It was merely irrelevant data and immediately dismissed. The ring _was_ important though; Sherlock had finally remembered the ring. A ring so thin that it was barely noticeable until it caught the light of the room and reflected it. He had seen it on the dowdy assistant to Ms. Adeline...and he might just have seen it on the hand that tried to smother him in the Dwight case. He couldn't be absolutely certain, but it was a possibility worth exploring, especially since both cases had been less than successful with a strong hint of something he had missed. Why would a syringe be placed in Ms. Adeline's hiding spot? Why would an outside party steal Mr. Dwight's incriminating laptop? It certainly hadn't been Mr. Dwight or his family, they had all been accounted for when the police investigated Sherlock's assault. There was something there...there had to be.

John, who had finally reached the coffee table, reached up and tugged on Sherlock's sleeve. "Sherlock," he said, a bit loudly, "Sherlock, come on, get down. Pushing yourself is one thing, but this...this isn't healthy."

A huff of air that might have been a laugh escaped Sherlock's mouth but he never stopped slowly scanning the room around him, craning his neck now that John's grip on him stopped him from actually turning. What did health matter when he had so little time left? A handful of months to track and corner this spider in its own web... For normal criminals this would be more than enough time to find and capture a dozen, but this one criminal had taken so long to even make Sherlock suspect that they were there... There was no doubt he was contending with an intellectual equal, someone close enough to him in skill to make the time he had left seem pitifully short.

It could be possible that this woman was the spider. If she'd felt Sherlock poking around in her web the syringe could have been a warning. If she was a good as he thought she was, it would be no hardship for her to research his poisoning.

But if that were the case, why would she pursue him personally during with Dwight case? And wearing an identifying piece of jewelry no less? No, it didn't fit for someone that clever. Sherlock's pursuit of this spider might very well have been noticed, he _was_ somewhat famous now, thanks to John's blog. But no, it couldn't have been her. Even _if_ both cases were connected to London's web of crime (he had theorized that Mr. Dwight's shipping industry was less than wholesome) it would make more sense for the spider in the web to send underlings after him.

Anyone who held too much power got a bit full of themselves. Perhaps the rings served as a badge or marker of loyalty? Sherlock smirked at the thought. It could be true, the metal of those rings was almost thin enough to be spider silk.

"Sherlock!" John was shouting now, and he tugged so violently on the sleeve of Sherlock's robe that the lanky man toppled onto him. John caught him in his arms and managed to keep his balance, but just barely. "Enough," he barked, "You are going to eat something, and then you are going to bed." John glared at the objects around them. "Whatever this is, it's gotten out of hand!"

Sherlock jerked his cold limbs from the ex-army doctor's insistent grasp. "Leave me alone!" he spat. "Everything is _perfectly_ under control."

"Really?" John was still shouting. " _This_ is under control in your mind? What part of this is under control?!"

Sherlock waved his hand ineffectually in John's general direction, as though to pat him on the head. "Sshh. You wouldn't understand. Everything is fine."

John's fist clenched at the heavily patronizing tone. Fine? Everything was _fine_ , was it? And apparently, even if it wasn't, the situation would be utterly beyond his comprehension...His jaw was clamped shut so tightly his whole head was starting to ache.

"Sod this!" John turned and furiously tugged on his coat. "I did _not_ agree to this so I could watch someone else destroy themselves!" He snapped his mouth shut and flung the door to their flat open, his entire body rigid with fury. It was bad enough that he'd had to watch, helplessly, as Harry had struggled for so many years.

John flew down the stairs and out of the building onto the streets of London, his throat too tight to utter any excuse to the startled Mrs. Hudson who looked worriedly after him from her place outside her door as he left.

The ex-army doctor marched blindly through London, cursing Sherlock and his corrosive personality. How _dare_ he! It was one thing to push John's buttons, to drag him headlong into the middle of complex and bewildering situations in the name of a case, to keep him up for days to be a proper witness to the miserable state that was humanity (in Sherlock's mind anyway), but what Sherlock was doing now served no other purpose than self-destruction. Was this supposed to make his case for him, that even he wasn't safe from ravages of a world gone mad? John huffed indignantly, quickening his pace. That didn't prove anything except that Sherlock had wrapped his own misery around himself like a shield!

John's ragged breathing felt like fire in his lungs, and his indignation propelled his body forward for what felt like hours. When, at last, his anger had burnt itself out, he found himself loitering by the entrance to St. Barts. This was where he had first met Sherlock but, as far as he knew, the world's only consulting detective hadn't returned since This was probably to avoid with certainty any more solicitors on his bet. They certainly wouldn't bother his at home, even if they knew his address. John had seen Mrs. Hudson chase off reporters after a few of Sherlock's more prestigious cases, and she could be fearsome. The thought made him smile for the first time all day.

He shouldn't waste anymore of his thoughts on Sherlock today. After all, this building had far more pleasant memories associated with it since he'd met James. John hesitated, uncertain if he wanted to disturb the other man or not... Well, James was his friend, and this wouldn't be the first time he had been a safe harbor to John, away from the storm that was Sherlock Holmes...

* * *

Sherlock was on his knees, pawing haphazardly through the flotsam and jetsam around him. Something, there had to be _something_ here that would link the cases with the rings, there _had_ to be!

His hands were scratched from his careless searching, and some of those scratches were starting to bleed, but it didn't matter. It was only transport, transport which would wither and fade away very shortly, whether or not he managed to accomplish his final goal. Even more of a reason to keep going.

Disgusted with his lack of results Sherlock attempted to rise to his feet and search another area. His limbs, however, were too cold and stiff to support his weight, and he stumbled, finally toppling onto floor, cracking the back of his head loudly against the coffee table. Sherlock sucked in a breath and curled into a ball, clutching his skull. He'd suffered far worse injuries without flinching, but this kind of pain had some...powerful associations.

Sherlock took a deep breath and tried again to rise, but it _hurt_ to put pressure on his hands and knees. This was partly because of his prolonged searching and the open windows, and partly because of the poison taking a stronger hold on his body. The symptoms had continued to progress but, up until recently, his iron control had enabled him to mask them. Now he was certain that even John had seen his hands shaking.

The symptoms did ebb and flow in a way Sherlock had given up trying to understand. Sometimes it was almost easy to ignore but other times, and more often recently, everything hurt and burned and ached making each breath an agonizing distraction.

"John!" his cry echoed in the cold, empty building... That's right. He'd forgotten. John had left hours ago, too triggered by Sherlock's deterioration to stay. Mrs. Hudson had come up a few minutes later and made some concerned inquiries before shuffling out herself. He'd heard her put on her long coat, gather up her purse and head outside, locking the door behind her. She kept a very regular schedule. It was Wednesday...grocery shopping day. ...He was alone...

Sherlock was shaking violently now, his head was pounding, and every movement threatened to wrack his body with dry heaves. Slowly, painfully, he edged his way over to his chair. With a monumental effort he manage to climb up, and huddle into a miserable ball on the seat. He was sweating now, even though the room felt as cold to him as a walk in freezer. He clutched desperately onto the arm of the chair, hoping he could manage to stay off the floor until his tremors subsided...

* * *

James glanced up from his work when he heard the door open and brilliant smile broke out across his face. "John! Good to see you. Did you miss me?"

John's friendly but slightly pinched expression did not escape him. James straightened, removed his gloves, and walked around the table to meet John, placing a hand on his upper arm once they were close enough. "What's wrong?"

The ex-army doctor grimaced; displeased that he was so easy to read. Of course Sherlock could read him no matter what, but that was Sherlock. He must really be losing his poker face if James could read him so easily. "It's Sherlock," he said quietly, glad that they seemed to be the only two around at present.

"Is he alright?" James asked, his brows furrowing in sympathy.

John shook his head. "I don't know. I don't think so. The way he was acting today, I almost think he's using again… He's almost impossible to read on a good day, and he doesn't really do _normal_ , but he looked _sick_ when I saw him last, and he'd torn the flat to pieces looking for..." John shrugged, "something."

James nodded slowly as he listened. "And that was probably pretty triggering, considering what you've been through with your sister."

John ran a hand over his face and nodded again. "Yeah." His voice was tight and he couldn't quite bring himself to meet James's eyes. He knew the sympathy in James's expression was kindly meant, but it felt suffocating.

James seemed to understand because he leaned back on the table behind him and crossed his arms. "How's she doing?"

John shrugged again. "She's taking things one day at a time. She's still feeling overwhelmed by almost everything. She's really grateful to be at the Edelweiss Recovery Center, because it feels isolated there, and she feels like she can take her time making a plan for everything."

James nodded slowly. "One day at a time is good advice for anyone. Especially when they're in a difficult situation."

John finally looked up and met his friend's gaze. He had the feeling that James was talking about him as much as his sister. It was good advice, especially considering he wouldn't back out of his deal with Sherlock as long as Harry needed the help. And it wasn't as though he hadn't seen Sherlock push the limits on a case before, this was just the first time he'd seen Sherlock look so ill… He didn't like to see his friends suffer.

Friend… Was Sherlock his friend? Maybe, a friend of sorts. By Sherlock's standards anyway, John might be one of his only friends.

James pushed himself up from the table and clapped his hands together lightly. "Well, if you don't mind waiting around for a bit I'd be happy to take you to the pub around the corner when I'm finished with this autopsy."

John nodded, then nodded again more vigorously. He needed some distance from everything for a few hours. Compared to life with Sherlock, an autopsy sounded wonderfully simple. "I could help you finish, if you'd like."

"Technically that would be against regulation," James replied quietly. John had just opened his mouth to explain that he understood when James reached to his side and pulled two fresh blue gloves from the box on the table and held them out to John. "Lucky for us that the dead don't talk." John smiled and took the gloves.

* * *

Two hours later they made their way into the Lion's Den, grabbed a few pints along with some food, and made themselves comfortable at a table near the back.

"So," John began, breathing the smoky air deep into his lungs, it might be carcinogenic, but he was fairly certain his mad flat mate would take more years off of his life, given time, "What's new at the morgue?"

James took a sip of his beer, and smiled. "It's been quiet as a graveyard, I'm afraid."

John chuckled. "Cute." He took a sip of his own stout before asking, "There really hasn't been much going on? I thought St. Bart's worked closely with the Yard?"

"We can," James acknowledged, "Things have just been slow lately."

"Huh. I guess Sherlock isn't the only one experiencing a lull in cases," John mused.

"Is that when he's at his worst? When he has no cases to solve?" James asked, tearing off a bit of bread and bringing it up to his mouth.

"Sometimes," John mused, "It depends. He loves to run experiments too, on the most random things, or at least I can't find any order to them. He claims they help him out on cases, knowing how fast eyeballs freeze then thaw, or how biological evidence responds to people's attempts to remove it." He shrugged. "Things get _bad_ when he has no cases and no active experiments. It's like his massive intellect tries to self-destruct if it doesn't have something to occupy it, or something."

"How so?" James asked leaning forward with interest.

"Like today, for example," John began, his face darkening at the memory. "I don't think he's slept in three days, not that he sleeps much to begin with. He's been tearing the flat apart going through old case files. It looks like the place was ransacked; I couldn't even see the floor. And he has papers tacked on the walls, and memento's from old cases propped up everywhere." He took a deep swallow of beer to fortify himself before he pressed on. "Today I found him on the coffee table, just slowly turning around, muttering to himself."

James frowned, concerned, and placed a hand lightly on John's forearm. "That sounds like a scene right out of a horror film."

John nodded. "It felt like it. He looked like he'd lost _more_ weight and the bruises under his eyes made it look like he'd been in a fight." He swallowed, then looked up to meet James's steady gaze. "I'm starting to think he's working a case he's not telling me about."

James leaned forward a bit more. "Really? What kind of case?"

John glanced down at the table for a moment, shaking his head. "I don't know. Something that links back to old cases, maybe? He could think it links back to a number of old cases, actually, that would explain why he's dragged out probably every case file he has."

James looked thoughtful for a moment. "What do you think he's after?"

"I don't know," John admitted. "I think he'd particularly like to show up his brother."

"The one that _is_ the British Government?" James asked with a wry smile, which John easily returned.

"That's the one. You'd think two such brilliant minds would see the wisdom in working together."

"One should never underestimate the power of a sibling rivalry," James countered, taking another bite of his sandwich."

A rueful smile spread over John's lips as he thought of his sister. "True enough."

"So, is he always this bad without a case or experiment, or is this time something special?" James asked, leaning his chin on his palm.

"No, this is unusual. Maybe it's been building over time, I don't know. Typically he just whines about wanting cigarettes and his gun." James raised a surprised eyebrow and John elaborated, "He used to be into drugs, and he _claims_ that when he's working he feels no cravings, but when he's not working he needs something to relieve the tedium."

John let out a long, slow sigh. "Maybe he thinks he can get away with cigarettes, but if he tries anything else recreationally the Detective Inspector he works with most often will make it difficult for him to work cases."

"You're inner doctor is showing," James said with a small smile.

"What do you mean?" John asked, perplexed.

"You want to fix him," James insisted.

John frowned. "Doctors don't' fix anyone, and I never liked the concept of someone being considered 'broken' anyways." He paused thoughtfully, taking another drink from his pint. "Doctors do help people heal, so if you mean I want to help heal him, then yes, naturally. Damned if I know what ails him, though. He's impossible to get close to."

"I don't know about that," James countered. "You've lived with him for a while now. You seem to understand him, at least a little. And I would certainly say that you've grown attached."

John lifted his head and squeezed his eyes shut tight. " _Please_ tell me you're not trying to insinuate romantic feelings that aren't there. The rest of the world is bad enough as it is."

James chuckled softly. "I didn't mean anything more than what I said. You're not the type of man who could live and interact so closely with someone for so long without caring for them, at least a little." When John opened his eyes to glare at him James added, "In the _plutonic_ sense, John. I never thought I had any reason to be jealous."

John frowned for a moment, then smiled a bit when he realized James was referencing, and possibly making a joke about his own more than friendly feelings for the ex-army doctor. They'd not really talked about their _almost_ conversation since it had happened, but things had never been awkward between them either, and John was immensely grateful for that.

His smile fell from his face as he considered James's words, and his flatmate's current situation. "No," he said softly. "I don't think anyone has cause to be jealous of Sherlock Holmes. Not right now, anyway."

James reached forward and gave John's forearm a squeeze. "If you need a night off, my couch is always available."

John's smile returned for a fleeting moment. "No, thank you. I _really_ appreciate the offer, but I'm…I'm a little afraid to leave him alone tonight."

James nodded, understanding. "Come on then, we should get you home."

John looked over their now empty glasses and plates, and nodded. They stood, paid their tab, and walked out together into the night.

It was chilly, but thankfully not raining. John brought his hands up to his mouth to warm them, then stuck them in his pockets. "You don't have to walk all the way back with me," he said, turning his face towards James, who was walking to his right.

James nodded. "I know, but I don't mind. I would need to go near 221 B to get home from this direction, so it's not really out of my way." James paused for a moment then leaned a bit closer and murmured, "I like being your friend, John. You're not a burden."

"I know that," John insisted

James looked at him skeptically. "Sometimes, I wonder if you do. As a doctor, a solider, and a brother, you've had to be strong for so many people. You don't need to be strong all the time."

John looked away and was silent. Those thoughts were uncomfortable to dwell on, but they were not unfamiliar to him. It was one of the main reasons he'd been adamant about not dating James or anyone else. His life was too chaotic to manage connecting romantically in a healthy way with another person.

They walked in silence for a time before James spoke up again. "Have you given any thought to what you'll do when you're not working cases anymore?"

The thought almost made John stop in his tracks. He hadn't. Not in months. When he'd first moved in all he could think about was when this would all be over, but now… He still thought about what would happen when Harry completed treatment and how he could help her transition. But he hadn't thought of not working cases with Sherlock… He ... really had become attached...

"John?" James asked again, leaning forward to try to catch his gaze.

"Right, sorry. I guess it's been a while." John replied, unnerved by his own thoughts. He forced himself to contemplate the future. "I _would_ like to go back to being a regular doctor. Maybe working at a surgery?"

James nodded, a wry smile playing on his lips. "If you ever want to work at St. Barts, teaching, or in the morgue, I'd be happy to put in a good word for you. You were brilliant helping out with that autopsy."

John grinned pleased. "Thank you. It was nice to work on something simple for a change."

"I'd hardly call any autopsy _simple_ ," James replied with a small chuckle. Even the most routine autopsy was time consuming. "But we did work well together." He shrugged. "It felt like we'd worked together before."

Looking back, John had to agree. They'd barely said two words together to each other the whole time. It had been very comforting, almost cozy working alongside James. He'd like to do it again. "I'll think about it," he conceded, still smiling, "after Harry's back home and settled."

He almost frowned when he realized that they'd already reached the steps up to 221 B. He didn't want the evening to end so soon, but the ex-army doctor had never run away from his responsibilities, and he wasn't about to start now. John took his hands out of his pockets and turned to say goodbye. He almost jumped when he realized how close James was to him; John had to tilt his head up to meet his eyes.

"I like that idea, Dr. Watson," James murmured, still smiling.

"Of me working in the morgue?" John replied, somewhat at a loss. "I should hope so. You suggested it."

James chuckled, low in his throat and leaned forward. "Of you keeping my suggestions in mind for the future," he replied. James's breath ghosted over his face and John closed his eyes, knowing he was about to be kissed.

Yes he wasn't ready for a relationship, but hadn't he also said he'd wanted something simple? John felt like they understood each other, what could be more simple than a kiss? He'd also said he was flattered by James's affection, and he was. It felt _good_ to be wanted.

Soft, warm lips met his own and John pressed up against them, steadying himself with a hand on James's hip. John felt James's hand cup his cheek, holding him in place. John parted his lips and traced the seam of James's mouth with his tongue. James's hummed in pleasure for a moment before meeting John's tongue with his own. There was no battle for dominance, just the slide of warm wet muscle, a mingling of breath, and affection.

When John did pull back, it was only slightly, their breath still mingled as he opened his eyes to smile at James, who was smiling back at him. "I'll see you around, John."

John nodded, giving James's hip a gentle squeeze. "See you around," he echoed.

James leaned forward, stole one last, short kiss, before pulled back and making his way down the street. John watched him go, warmed by the evening of good company and the almost promise of something more to come.

When he at last drew his gaze up to the windows of his flat he sighed, squared his shoulders, and went in.

It was eerily quiet inside, and John hurried up the steps. "Sherlock?" he called, scanning their darkened living room as he fumbled to hang up his coat. There was no response. He reached out to turn on one of the rooms many lamps, and winced when he saw the state of the floor. Somehow things were even _worse_ than when he had left before… He decided it would be best to keep his shoes on for his own protection. As carefully as he could John picked his way across the room and closed the windows. John rubbed his hands together, starting to feel the chill once more.

He turned around with the intention of making himself a warm cup of tea and heading to bed when the site of Sherlock crumpled in his chair stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Sherlock?" John asked stepping forward, kneeling beside his friend, and checking his pulse.

"…'lo John," Sherlock replied faintly as John pressed his fingers into the younger man's wrist.

John frowned, pleased that Sherlock as conscious, but troubled by his racing heartbeat. He lifted his hand and pressed it to a forehead that was damp with sweat. "You have a fever," John grumbled his fingers sliding down Sherlock's neck to press against the swollen lymph nodes under his jaw.

"Brilliant deduction," Sherlock quipped, a ghost of a wry smile curling at the edge of his lips.

John was not in the mood for games. "You are going to bed," he ordered. Standing, he glanced around and thought again. "Stay here."

"s' contradiction," Sherlock declared, weakly pointing a finger at him.

John rolled his eyes and strode over to Sherlock's room. He opened the door, turned on the light, and turned down the bed sheets. A casual glance informed him that Mrs. Hudson had tidied the room yesterday when she was visiting, despite her frequent protestations that she was 'not a housekeeper.' Bless her.

Upon returning to the living room John bent down and slid his arms securely under Sherlock's arms and knees, pulling the world's only consulting detective close to his chest. Once he was secure of his grip, John stood, lifting Sherlock with him. He took measured steps, not wanting to drop his friend, nor prolong the trip to the bedroom. Dead weight was dead weight, no matter how light it was, or how strong the person carrying it was. Sherlock's head lolled ominously against John's neck and shoulder.

Gently, John set Sherlock down on the bed, anchoring his arm around Sherlock's shoulders to keep him upright. Once Sherlock was seated, John slipped the robe off his shoulders, and reached for the hem of his t-shirt.

"Buy me dinner first," Sherlock drawled. He might have been making a joke, but John was having none of it.

"These clothes are soaked in sweat, Sherlock. You need to have dry ones or you're only going to get worse." He pulled Sherlock's shirt over his head and allowed him to lay down on the bed. He reached for Sherlock's trousers and pants next, and met with no protest. John had stripped and dressed delirious patients before, so with Sherlock almost helping, or at least not hindering him, he was able to replace his sodden clothes with dry ones relatively quickly.

Once Sherlock was dressed, John settled him on the bed with a light sheet over him (his fever didn't need any assistance) and disappeared into the bathroom. When he returned he set a small tray on the nightstand and seated himself on the edge of the bed. "Can you sit up?" he asked

Sherlock glowered at him and attempted to rise. John slipped a hand behind Sherlock's back and assisted him. "I've got some acetaminophen here; you're going to take it," John explained, lifting a glass of water to Sherlock's lips. He drank without protest, then held water in his mouth while John set the glass down and lifted two tablets to his lips. Sherlock accepted the medicine, swallowing it easily.

John eased his friend back onto the bed, and lifted a damp flannel from the tray, wiping it across Sherlock's face. The world's only consulting detective grimaced and grumbled, but did not turn his face away. Even he knew the cloth only _felt_ like it was freezing. When he was finished, John rested the cool flannel over Sherlock's brow.

He reached for Sherlock's hands next, the scratches and nicks not having escaped his notice. He used another flannel to wash them with antiseptic solution, then rubbed in a thin layer of triple antibiotic ointment.

"We should stop meeting like this," Sherlock murmured watching lazily as John massaged the ointment into his hands.

It took John a moment to realize that Sherlock was referencing with Dwight case. When he did, he smiled. "I don't mind patching you up in the name of your work, but self-destruction isn't part of the deal, Sherlock." As John spoke his voice became firm, insistent.

"My work _is_ self-destructive," Sherlock countered, his voice quiet in the still room.

"I doesn't have to be," John maintained, his voice softening a little.

Sherlock was silent for so long that John thought he had fallen asleep. It was just when John was settling both of Sherlock's hands back on the bedclothes that he heard a soft, "Thank you."

John looked up, surprised. Sherlock's eyes were closed, but John had no doubt that he had spoken. It was the first time he could remember the world's only consulting detective thanking anyone for anything.

"You're welcome," John replied, his voice equally gentle. He squeezed Sherlock's hands lightly and resolved to sit up with his friend until he could be sure Sherlock was sleeping soundly.


	14. Dangerous Affection

**Thank you to OncomingEastWind for your comment! Many thanks also to all those who hace left reviews, favorited, and/or followed this story! You are all wonderful, and I hope you have a fantastic weekend!**

 **This is the last chapter with a case based on the cannon works, feel free to guess which one! ^_^**

 **Trigger Warning: This is a murder case.**

* * *

Chapter 13: Dangerous Affection

"That answer, Mr. Holmes, is _no_."

Rene Williams was a beautiful you woman of twenty three years with gray eyes and soft blond hair that fell to her shoulders. She was a small, thin woman with delicate features, but her tone bespoke a will of iron, belying the fragile image she presented.

"Miss. Williams," Sherlock tried again, his voice strained with irritation. "Please be reasonable. You can't ignore the evidence." It had taken a great deal of effort for John to convince Sherlock to _try_ to be calm and gentle with Miss. Williams. John suspected the poor woman felt cornered and harassed enough as was. Sherlock had put forth a very charming visage at first, but had been met with only steely contempt, which quickly wore away at his patience.

"What _evidence_ , Mr. Holmes?" Miss. Williams retorted, lifting her chin defiantly. "I have seen only vicious rumors and slander directed at a respectable man who has suffered greatly."

"He has had _three_ dead wives before you!" Sherlock roared, surging to his feet as his control finally snapped. "Are you so eager to be the fourth?!"

Miss. Williams rose to her feet as well, undeterred from her purpose. "Three tragic _accidents_!" she yelled back. Despite her small stature her voice resounded powerfully around the room. "Charles has suffered time and time again, each time being thrown into the suspicion of the court, and each time the court could find no _real_ evidence with which to make their case. And somehow, after all of this, he found it in his heart to _love_ again! He warned me it would be a difficult road before us, and I promised him I would not be shaken, especially not with trifling theories that won't stand up in court!"

Sherlock threw his hands into the air and began to pace erratically around the room. " _Would_ evidence resulting in a conviction convince you Miss. Williams?" Sherlock turned to glower at her. "Somehow I doubt even a full confession from Mr. McAndrew himself would move you to reason!"

Miss. Williams returned Sherlock's glower, but was able to reply with a cool, aloof tone. "Of course I would believe if Charles told me, I _trust_ him." The silence that followed was so thick and menacing that John was certain he'd have to break up a fist fight.

At length Sherlock drew himself up to his full height and moved to stand directly in front of Miss. Williams. "I will find you your proof then." Sherlock arched a sardonic eyebrow. "I do hope I can manage to find enough to convince you before your body becomes _exhibit A_."

There was another long moment of mutual glowering before Sherlock whirled around and strode out of the room. John stood, nodded at Miss. Williams and murmured, "Thank you for meeting with us."

She glanced at the ex-army doctor and gave the barest of nods in return. For the most part, John had been a spectator during this meeting, and so had not incurred her wrath directly.

John grabbed his coat and pulled it on as he hurried after the world's only consulting detective. Sherlock had been angry enough that John worried about having to pay his own cab fare home, then pay Sherlock's to assuage an angry cabbie he would most certainly leave for John to deal with. Luckily Sherlock had been too busy angrily stalking up and down the sidewalk to summon a cab.

When he spotted John, Sherlock stalked up to his blogger and growled, " _Love_ is the single most prevalent motivator for every murder case I've ever solved."

The ex-army doctor could almost feel the tension radiating off of his friend. Sherlock _hated_ losing a case, and, John quietly suspected he was also galled by the idea of the young woman they had just met falling prey to the menace that was Charles McAndrew.

Sherlock's looming presence and menacing snarl made a fearsome visage, but John wasn't the slightest bit intimidated. "Don't be an idiot."

The piercing gaze of the world's only consulting detective narrowed and his voice became ominously quiet. "Pardon?"

John smirked, unapologetic, "Don't be discouraged. I have it on good authority that most people are idiots."

Sherlock opened his mouth, but before he spit out whatever vicious comment he'd concocted, John stepped forward and spoke again, his face serious. "What I did for my sister is love, Sherlock. My _actions_ showed it. This," John gestured wildly behind him, indicating the building and the woman they had just left, "isn't love. It's manipulation and blind devotion." John squared his shoulders, his gaze never wavering. "Now, it's our job to disillusion Miss. Williams. I'm sure you have a morally dubious plan in that brilliant mind of yours; let's get to it."

Sherlock's expression changed, looking both calculating and mildly confused. "And you intend to follow me without argument? No high-handed objections?"

John shook his head firmly. "Not this time, Sherlock."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at his blogger. "Blind devotion?" he drawled, the hint of a sarcastic smile on his lips."

A short bark of laughter escaped John's throat before he replied, "Hardly. You're a high-strung genius with a fascination for picking people apart. Given your line of work you're constantly mired in the darker sides of humanity. You revel in loudly and publically illustrating the follies of others, and while you'll never turn down a challenge, I've never seen you be cruel for the sake of taking enjoyment from other people's pain. Given your assertion that you're any type of sociopath is unfounded, and nothing I've seen or been able to think of has ever pulled you away from a case, I've got nothing to fear from you directly."

Sherlock blinked a few times, taken aback by John's smug and frank analysis. He was wrong on a few key points, naturally, but on the point of his safety from Sherlock...

The world's only consulting detective reached forward and yanked John forcefully into an alcove that served as the front entrance of a local shop. John came willingly, only mildly surprised. The ex-army doctor pressed himself close, correctly assuming that Sherlock had meant to hide them from view. "Mr. McAndrew is arriving?" John asked, his breath ghosting over Sherlock's ear. Sherlock nodded, ignoring the goose bumps spreading down his neck and along his spine.

They stayed locked together, pressed against a side window display before Sherlock abruptly pulled them back out into the street and raised his arm for a cab. John grimaced in mild irritation when a cab materialized on the curb not an instant later. He couldn't decide if it was Sherlock's magnetic presence, or if he had some sort of deal with London's cab service... Maybe this instant service was a form of gratitude as a result of some past case Sherlock had solved for them...?

"John!" Sherlock's sharp, stern reprimand jolted the ex-army doctor out of his reverie.

"Right, sorry. I'm listening. Where are we headed?"

Sherlock leaned forward so that he could speak softly, without risk of the cabbie overhearing him. He made it look as thought he'd leaned forward to kiss John or to whisper romantic nonsense at him, to further ensure that the driver, who was a prim, reserved woman, would pay them no mind. "We're going to examine Mr. McAndrew's home. Miss. William's father provided us with the address during his visit, remember?"

John nodded as he recalled Mr. Williams' visit. He had burst into their flat at 3:00am the previous night, completely undeterred by Mrs. Hudson's threats to call the police. By the time John had stumbled into the living room, Sherlock had seated Mr. Williams on the sofa against the far wall and was ushering Mrs. Hudson out.

Mr. Williams had proceeded to inform them that he believed his daughter was in danger of losing her life. Against his wishes, she'd become engaged to Mr. Charles McAndrew, a man who's last three wives met their untimely ends under highly suspicious circumstances. During their courtship Mr. McAndrew had convinced Miss. Williams that he was a man unjustly blamed for the tragic 'accidents' which had befallen his former wives. Mr. Williams explained that he'd been unable to dissuade his daughter, and she had informed him that evening that she would marry Mr. McAndrew in three days. Mr. Williams reported he had resolved instantly to seek Sherlock's help in the middle of the night so that his daughter would not know at first, and would be unprepared for any initial interview which may follow.

The words of the desperate man still rang in John's ears. " _Please Mr. Holmes, you've got to help save my daughter!_ "

Sherlock had agreed to take on the case, mostly because of the three dead wives attached to Mr. McAndrew. He and John had reviewed all the information about Mr. McAndrew that Mr. Williams had brought with him, and agreed to speak with his daughter at 10:00am.

John had been surprised and grateful that Sherlock had agreed to try to dissuade Miss. Williams from marrying Mr. McAndrew. Part of him had wondered if Sherlock had agreed to speak with her to get collateral information, or if he truly had wanted to dissuade her. Probably it was both, and ultimately, John decided, it wasn't worth clarifying.

The cab came to an abrupt halt outside of Mr. McAndrew's town house. Sherlock exited quickly and John reflexively reached for his wallet to pay the fair. He still wasn't happy about being stuck with the bill, but he recognized it was a lost cause.

By the time John joined Sherlock on the stoop, the world's only consulting detective had just managed to pick the lock. Sherlock pocketed the pins he'd used with a smug smile and slipped inside. John smiled despite himself, and shook his head as he followed. "You made that look just like you were turning a key," he commented as they slipped down a narrow hallway.

Sherlock turned his smug expression on John. "One never knows when little old ladies might be neighbors of a suspect. They're better than any security system I've ever seen."

They passed a small but well organized kitchen, and slipped into what appeared to be a study or a home office. "Do we know what we're looking for?" John asked, closing the door behind them to promote the illusion of security.

"Mementos," Sherlock replied, already rifling through one of Mr. McAndrew's book cases. "Every serial killer keeps some kind of memento from their kills. They instill a sense of pride. Given his extensive book collection in this room alone, and the utter lack of evidence the Yard has been able to find against him, it may only be a written record, but that's as good as a confession."

John nodded and went to work on the book shelf on the opposite side of the room, mentally reviewing the cause of death for Mr. McAndrew's first three wives as he did so. He would never measure up to Sherlock, but he'd like not to be _completely_ lost when the world's only consulting detective began to present his findings.

The first wife, Jessica Reddington before she married, had perished in a fire that had destroyed the couple's home. Mr. McAndrew had been away at a business meeting at the time, and the subsequent investigation found no signs of arson.

The second wife, Tara Parker had suffered a violent and instantly fatal fall while out hiking with her husband. They had not been alone on the foot paths, and witness reported hearing Mr. McAndrew's anguished cries as he tried desperately to reach the prone body of his wife. They Yard could find no evidence of any foul play, even though the investigation had continued weeks after her death.

The third wife, Carol Kendrick had officially been ruled a suicide. She had been found slumped over and drowned in the tub by Mr. McAndrew after his return from work one evening. He had reported to the yard that they'd shared breakfast and tea together in the morning, and he'd left for work as usual, with no indication that anything was amiss. Carol had been prescribed strong sedative hypnotics to help combat persistent and severe Generalized Anxiety Disorder, which had resulted in almost daily panic attacks. The lab had found an excessively high amount of this medication in her blood stream, which had likely resulted in intense drowsiness, and subsequent drowning

They searched every book in the study, the living room, and the bedroom to no result, so Sherlock returned to the study to hack Mr. McAndrew's computer. "I would have thought any record he kept would be hand written," Sherlock mused, booting up the expensive computer. "He's an old-fashioned sort of person, and hand-written things tend to add to sentiment, for those who are so disposed to such nonsense."

The computer was password protected, but that didn't slow Sherlock down for a second. John tried to let him concentrate, but he couldn't quite contain his curiosity. " _How_ did you guess his password so quickly?"

Sherlock answered without once looking away from the computer or slowing his typing speed. "Mr. McAndrew owns every work ever published by Robert Frost and a very old, well-kept version of the Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri. We already know he likes to read. One of Robert Frost's most popular poems is 'Fire and Ice' which speaks about the end of the world, and is said to be a tribute to the Divine Comedy, referencing the nine layers of hell recounted in Dante's Inferno. A passionate, old-fashioned serial killer, it wasn't hard to guess."

"What was it?" John asked after a protracted silence. As much as Sherlock loved to show off he tended to trail off at inconvenient places once he felt something should be obvious.

"Fire." Sherlock replied, still rapidly opening and closing files.

"Ah, naturally," John murmured shaking his head at himself and his crazy flatmate. He decided to make himself at least somewhat useful and keep guard by the study windows. They faced the street and offered a decent view of the front door of the townhouse. The ex-army doctor positioned himself so that the curtains on the windows would obscure him from view, but not block his view of the front door, and watched.

John had experience standing watch, and focused on mentally listing the number of men that passed so that he would maintain good attention, and the one specific man he was looking for would not likely escape his notice. It was an easy routine to fall into, lulled by the clicking of the keyboard as Sherlock's fingers danced across it.

"Sherlock." John's voice was quiet, and the tone clipped. It was just enough of a warning to pierce the concentration of the world's only consulting detective.

"Too soon," Sherlock murmured back, fingers still moving rapidly.

A hand gripped his elbow like a steel band, pulling upwards. "Now, Sherlock, or I am dragging you out the window." Sherlock let out a short, rough exclamation that sounded like a growl, and shut down the computer. Keys rattled in the lock and John stiffened. "Window?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not yet, too soon and he'll see us coming out."

As the door opened Sherlock lifted the window from its sill and ushered John out. The ex-army doctor rolled and crouched, joined only seconds later by his flatmate. John glanced up, his breathing slightly elevated from the adrenaline, and found that Sherlock had managed to close the window being him.

"That was close," he whispered, trying and failing not to grin as he looked back at Sherlock.

The world's only consulting detective arched an eyebrow and stared at him until John frowned and asked, "What?"

"Why do you insist on high-handed moral protests when you enjoy danger this much?" Sherlock muttered with frustrated agitation.

John let out a disbelieving huff and pointed an accusatory finger at Sherlock. "You enjoy it too."

"I never said that I didn't," Sherlock retorted, slinking out from underneath the window so that he could stand.

John stood as well, gratefully accepting Sherlock's offered hand. They'd made it all of half a block before the ex-army doctor thought to ask, "Wait, does this mean that you're actually admitting that you don't know something?"

Sherlock began to walk faster. "Hurry or we'll miss the cab."

"That doesn't answer my question," John insisted, feeling both giddy and smug. Although he pestered and needled Sherlock all the way back to Baker Street, he never did get an answer.

* * *

"Fuck!" The sound of something shattering on the wall brought John out from the kitchen. He'd just been washing up from dinner, not that he'd convinced Sherlock to have any, and he still had the dishtowel in his hands.

"Sherlock?" he asked," eyeing the wreck of a phone at his flatmate's feet.

"He knows we were there," Sherlock growled, throwing himself dramatically onto the sofa.

"How?" John asked, stepping into the room.

Sherlock shrugged. "Maybe I missed something, left evidence that we were there. He did murder three women without getting caught, that does take some amount of intelligence."

"He might be clever," John agreed, "But since when do you ever miss anything?"

Sherlock shrugged, throwing an arm over his eyes to block out the too bright light of the living room. "I'm not infallible."

This afternoon John most certainly would have gloated at such an admission, and made a show about how he needed to mark the calendar, but now the gray pallor of Sherlock's skin had him worried. The good doctor crept across their floor and leaned over the world's only consulting detective. John pressed his hand against Sherlock's arm, frowned, and slid his hand up over Sherlock's shoulder and along his neck, just under the jaw, feeling his swollen lymph nodes.

"Sherlock," John spoke quietly, but his tone conveyed a seriousness that thickened the atmosphere in the room.

Sherlock shifted, pulling his arm down, and blinking up at John as the ex-army doctor's hand slid over his cheek and came to rest on his forehead.

"How long have you had a fever?" John's steady blue gaze held him, and Sherlock knew he would not be brushed off.

"Three days. I've monitored myself every four hours, it has held steady at 102 degrees Fahrenheit."

John's fingers twitched as he drew his hand away from his flatmate's forehead and started pacing. "Damnit, Sherlock, you just had a fever last week! Why haven't you been to a doctor?!"

A crooked grin settled on Sherlock's face. "I see a doctor every day."

John's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I meant for treatment, Sherlock. You can't just ignore this!"

"Of course I can," Sherlock insisted, throwing his arm back over his eyes. His head had started pounding, and he knew from experience that the pressure would only get worse.

John swore and grumbled under his breath, already heading for the loo to fetch some over the counter fever reducer/pain killer.

"You can't fix this, John." The words sounded quiet, even to his own ears, but Sherlock still heard a tell-tale squeak from the floors when John stopped mid-step.

"What?"

"You can't fix this," Sherlock repeated, trying to sound a little more forceful. "Don't try."

John's weight swiveled on his feet, and he returned to the sofa. Sherlock felt a warm weight press into his side as the good doctor settled on the edge of the couch. "What, _exactly_ do you mean, Sherlock?" The world's only consulting detective grumbled under his breath, then felt John's fingers at his wrist. "Look at me."

Sherlock resettled his arm on his chest, and John's fingers settled on the pulse point, measuring his heart rate. John had the same expression on his face that he had when he was talking about his sister...but of course that shouldn't be surprising. He was a doctor. He liked to fix things. He liked to play God...they weren't so dissimilar in that sense.

"This is something chronic?" John pressed. "No cure, you're certain?"

All the sassy comments Sherlock could think of died on his lips. He swallowed as John's steady blue gaze held his once again. For such a soft hearted doctor, he went right to the point... "Yes, absolutely. Modern medicine and my own experiments can do nothing to alleviate my situation." Sherlock's lips quirked in a fleeting smile. "It's a lifelong condition."

"What condition?" John pressed.

Sherlock shrugged, then winced and wished he hadn't. When did his muscles get so sore? "Sherlock's condition, I suppose."

John blinked a few times then shook his head. "Are you saying it's never been seen before?"

"The symptoms are nothing new to medicine, but I don't think they've ever presented in exactly this manner or course. I assure you, however, I am not contagious."

"I think I would've noticed that by now, Sherlock, even without my medical degree."

"This is a slow acting...illness, so I doubt you would have noticed by now even if it was contagious." Sherlock sighed, shifting his arm to loosen John's sudden death grip on it. John relented and rested his fingers lightly on Sherlock's forearm. His fingers trembled as he processed the news.

Sherlock swallowed again turning his head away from the emotions swirling in John's eyes. It was useless to pity him. What was the point? He had been a dead man from the moment Miss. Hooper's needle had first pierced his skin. He could never be a bleeding heart romantic, it just wasn't in him. But he had enough time to untangle this last big web, and that would be a fitting end...

"Can your liver tolerate some medicine?"

Sherlock nodded and felt John's warmth leave him. He counted the good doctor's steps to the bathroom. He dawdled in their long enough to call the Thai place down the street and order some Tom Yum Goong. When John returned he dimmed the lights to a tolerable level before ordering Sherlock to sit up.

Sherlock took the medicine without complaint and made room for John to sit beside him on the sofa.

"Is there any program on the telly you can watch without being obnoxious?"

Sherlock turned to study his flatmate who was staring resolutely at the blank screen in front of him. John was upset and that puzzled him. The good doctor had said and demonstrated that he cared for him, but he had no good reason to. Sherlock knew he wasn't very likable, things were easier that way...

"I believe you could tolerate my commentary on Black Adder, season 2."

John glanced over at him, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Are you telling me you can't stop yourself from picking everything to pieces?"

Sherlock fixed him with a pointed look. "It's a satire, John, a comedy. They don't even take themselves seriously." He watched his blogger chuckle softly, shake his head, then turn his attention back to the telly.

"Fair enough," John replied, flipping through the channels to see what he could find. There was a Black Adder marathon on channel 30. John didn't need to ask to confirm that Sherlock had already known that. He'd probably memorized the schedule. One never knew when a would-be criminal would use the wrong programming schedule as an alibi.

By the time the Thai Food arrived, Sherlock was yelling advice and commentary at the screen and John was struggling not to laugh. Sherlock did _not_ need the encouragement... even if it was funny.

The ex-army doctor detoured to the kitchen, and poured the soup into a clean bowl. He set the bowl on a small tray alongside a glass of water and a spoon. Moving efficiently and quietly, John walked into the living room and set the tray he had prepared on the coffee stable.

"Eat." It was a quiet, caring command, but it was still a command.

Sherlock, who had never liked being told what to do, made a face.

John turned to face him, his expression serious. "I'll spoon feed you if you make me."

The corners of Sherlock's lips twitched. "I'd like to see you try."

John chuckled again. "Somehow I think all we would accomplish is making a brilliant spectacle of ourselves."

Sherlock nodded his agreement, and set the bowl of soup on his lap. It was hot, which helped soothe his throat, and spicy enough to help clear his sinuses... It _had_ been a bit too long since he'd last eaten. It was good. John sat beside him, laughing reluctantly at the ongoing commentary.

He finished the soup and the water, then settled back into the sofa with a small sigh. He felt better. Not healed, that was impossible, but this was the first time in a long while that he'd felt...comfortable... It made no sense tracking the progression of his illness any longer, all his mental energy needed to be focused on new cases, and any ways in which they may relate to his ultimate case. He was _certain_ the Dwight murder had more clues for him...

His eyes flickered over and he observed John's profile. He was upset, obviously, but... Sherlock let out another long sigh and closed his eyes. This was also the first time, maybe the first time ever that it hadn't felt like someone was having their emotions _at_ him. ...It was nice...

* * *

John slipped his arms around the warm body sprawled out against him and smiled. He nuzzled his face into his companion's shoulder and yawned, breathing in their sent. He jolted slightly when he recognized Sherlock's cologne, and the night before came rushing back to him.

Sherlock was sick... John hated that news. He was a doctor, he cared, so of course he wouldn't want that for anyone. As much as Sherlock drove him crazy...John didn't hate him. He wanted him to be happy.

John forced himself to loosen his grip and let his arms fall naturally to Sherlock's waist. The world's only consulting detective had nodded off fairly quickly after he'd finished the soup, and the ex-army doctor had been glad to see it. Sherlock needed his rest. John had enjoyed Sherlock's silent company, and the satisfaction that he was finally getting what he needed, before drifting off himself. John had woken up in the middle of the night, disturbed by the continual low hum of the infomercial now running on the telly. He found he'd slumped over in his sleep so that he was almost horizontal, and that Sherlock was sprawled on top of him. Smiling softly to himself John had reached over and grasped the remote, plunging the room into silence and darkness.

John had honestly meant to get Sherlock to bed, but he didn't want to wake him. His fever had broken and he'd seemed chilled; it had only been natural to pull a blanket over the both of them. The ex-army doctor tried to be logical, and he'd listed all sorts of reasons why it was a bad idea, before ultimately letting Sherlock use him as a bed anyway.

Sherlock's sleeping face was flushed with the healthy color of someone at rest; and the good doctor was glad to see his fever hadn't returned. John lifted his hand to Sherlock's wrist, taking his pulse, satisfied to find it steady and strong. He wasn't sure how long he lay like that, but his guilty conscience insisted that it had to be over an hour. Still, it was an event worth committing to memory. Sherlock was almost never so still...

John swallowed when he remembered last night's revelations. Sherlock was _sick_ with something he would never be rid of. Somehow, though Lord knew how, they'd become friends. John didn't have many friends, and he was loath to lose any of them. The world had too many ways to hurt, and John was sick to death with all of the people he cared about having some...lifelong condition _..._ John fervently hoped that Sherlock was wrong about his illness. It had been known to happen, after all, from time to time.

The transition from slack, lolling muscles, to coiling activity was so rapid that John nearly jumped off the sofa in surprise. "Sherlock!" He cried, trying, and mostly failing, to hold down his suddenly flailing flatmate. "What's wrong?!"

"Fire!" Sherlock gasped, his eyes still roving around the room, locked on whatever images his dreams had brought him. "Fire, of course, I should have guessed yesterday!" He scrambled up and off of John already reaching for his coat before John's voice finally reached him.

"Sherlock!" The world's only consulting detective paused, his coat half shrugged onto his shoulders and blinked owlishly at John. "Where are we going?" John asked, rising and reaching for his own coat.

The grin that claimed Sherlock's face was infectious, and John was smiling back before he even knew why.

"The burnt out house where the first murder took place. Mr. McAndrew never rebuilt it. 'Too many painful memories,' or some such nonsense. With every subsequent murder it would be more and more of a liability to keep any mementos close at hand. Plus preserving the first crime scene has a sense of nostalgia about it that seems appropriate for a serial killer.

John shook his head at himself and at the way Sherlock had pulled everything together so neatly. "Brilliant. I knew you'd figure it out."

Sherlock flushed with warmth, from the adrenaline, naturally, nothing else.

They shared a look bubbling with excitement before they rushed down the stairs like children on holiday, nearly tumbling one after the other in their eagerness to chase down this new clue.

* * *

Living in England for the majority of his life, John was more than familiar with ruins. Abandoned, crumbling buildings always made an impression, and the burnt out husk of the former McAndrew house was especially eerie. It was like the remains of the house, the trees that grew around it, the very earth remembered and mourned the tragic death of an innocent woman.

"Stop waxing poetic, John, we still need to find those _mementos_."

John frowned and looked over at his flatmate who was elbow deep in soot and other debris. He hadn't even looked up when before he'd scolded John. "I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking it," Sherlock replied, turning a deeply charred piece of wood over in his hands. "There is nothing unique about this crime scene, as far as arson scenes go; you're putting too much meaning into things."

John rolled his eyes and snorted with derision. "Sorry, we simple minded humans are sentimental from time to time."

Sherlock made a small grunt to show that he'd heard his blogger. "And damned tedious about it, too."

The ex army doctor shook his head and refocused, trying to look at the scene in front of him with new eyes. "You said that Mr. McAndrew has been here?"

"I said he may have been here. The ground is too trodden over by animal paths, and human foot prints. Probably some teenagers use this wreckage for drunken revelry."

"I hardly think they call it revelry, Sherlock," John retorted, slowly circling the edge of what was once a room. There really wasn't much left of the place, and John was at a loss to say if that was because of the fire, or the years and damage that had come afterwards. Where was there to even look? Sherlock was meticulously scanning the remaining walls, confirming his initial suspicions that nothing was buried here. The only thing that reached above their heads was the crumbling fireplace chimney.

John ran a sooty hand through his hair and took a step back, trying to scan as much of the scene in front of him as he could at once. "Let's review what we know. Mr. McAndrew is an intelligent, sentimental serial killer."

Sherlock didn't comment, so John assumed he hadn't erred in his summations. He continued. "His methods for killing vary every time, ergo he's not attached to a certain ritualized way of doing things."

"His 'ritual' is to court his victims, to woo them, to win their hearts and, just when they've given him everything, he ends it." Sherlock made a point of looking over his shoulder at John as he spoke, underlying the disastrous love Mr. McAndrew's wives had held for him.

John swallowed hard and forced himself not to look away. Sherlock wasn't wrong. Love could be more dangerous than a bullet through the heart, John had seen it happen. He'd _also_ seen love make a difference when no other medicine could. Deliverance or demise depended on the hearts and minds of those involved.

All the past Mrs. McAndrew's had loved their husband, and paid the ultimate price for it. The severity of such a betrayal, not once, but three times almost made John angry enough to take the matter into his own hands...almost. If there was going to be true justice, it had to come full circle; Miss. Williams must be disillusioned.

"Do you think the first crime was a crime of passion, or planned?" John asked, struggling to keep his focus.

"Fire is certainly dramatic," Sherlock agreed, "But he did a good enough job that it looked like an accident, and he didn't even use the fireplace..." Sherlock's voice trailed off and his gaze narrowed. "Idiot!" he hissed, stalking over to the largely intact chimney.

"What?" John asked, jumping out of the way as Sherlock brushed past him.

"The fireplace is _the_ place to start a fire, particularly if you don't want to be blamed for arson," Sherlock replied, circling the structure like a bird of prey about to move in for the kill. "Think about it, John. Who would think twice about someone mismanaging a fireplace? It happens all the time. Throw in a story about an awful row just before the business trip and how your wife drank when she was upset, and no one would question it. Poor distraught, drunk woman, it's a wonder she didn't burn down the whole neighborhood."

"But Mr. McAndrew _didn't_ use the fireplace as a starting point for the fire," John murmured, beginning to catch on. "They ruled it was faulty wiring, didn't they?

Sherlock nodded. "In the second story bedroom, yes. He probably set it up before he left so that it would happen over a few days, giving him all the time he needed to be seen at his business conference. Air tight alibi."

"Actually, when you put it that way, it sounds pretty damn suspicious," John replied.

Sherlock's lips quirked up in a satisfied grin as he knelt down and reached up into the opening of the chimney. His questing fingers found the rusted lever for the flue and grasped it tightly. His arm and shoulder muscles strained violently for a few moments before the flue opened with a painful sounding creak, and a light package fell into his waiting hands.

The world's only consulting detective withdrew his prize and delicately examined it. It appeared to be a book with scraps of mementos stuffed between its pages, carefully wrapped in a clear plastic bag. He glanced over his shoulder and shared a meaningful look with his blogger then they shifted and moved as one out of the ruined house.

* * *

Mr. Williams shot Sherlock and John more than a few curious looks when they knocked on his door, still smeared with soot and dirt from their search, but when they asked to see his daughter he ushered them inside without another word.

Miss. Williams, who had evidently been reading on the sofa, started when her father ushered the ex-army doctor and the world's only consulting detective into their living room. John sat as he was bade, trying to be mindful of the grime that covered him. Sherlock on the other hand, strode in confidently and sat down with such force that he sent small black particles flying out from his clothes, across the carpet and the upholstery

Miss. William's eyes were wide, taking in the spectacle before her as she delicately placed her book on a side table, and sat up a little straighter to meet her visitors. She swallowed, licked her lips, and brought her gaze up to meet Sherlock's. "Mr. Holmes," she began, her voice somewhat strained. "Please tell me you haven't been excavating... _bodies_..." The last word came out as a disbelieving whisper."

Sherlock snorted derisively, and shook his head. "Not much point in that, is there? Putting aside the fact that the first Mrs. McAndrew burned to ashes, and the deterioration which would occur to the other two bodies because of the length of time they have been decomposing, you have no practical knowledge of autopsies and anything I would try to teach you would naturally be suspect in your eyes."

Miss. Williams glanced sidelong at her father, who remained standing anxiously in the doorway. "It would also be a crime," she replied uncertainly, "since I know that Charles would never give you permission." She swallowed again and pressed on, "I _have_ heard of your reputation, and I would not doubt you capable of ignoring all respectable protocols." Her voice grew firmer, and her back straighter with each word and her righteous indignation returned.

John sputtered an irrepressible laugh. "That's all true, I'm afraid," he said, trying to collect himself. "He's made Detective Inspector Lestrade chase him all over London before. His idea of calling for police backup is to trigger silent alarms during a search for evidence." John shrugged. "Well, that or pick pocketing police identification so that they'll come after him."

Miss. William's eyes grew wide again, and John offered her a friendly smile. She was a bit off, center again, which was probably the best place for her to be right now; it made her more likely to believe what they had to offer.

Without prompting, Sherlock leaned forward, offering the small package he'd retrieved from his inside jacket pocket. Miss. Williams hesitantly accepted it, turning it over in her hands. "What is this?"

"We found it wedged inside the flue at the burned remains of Mr. McAndrew's former house," Sherlock explained, leaning forward so that his elbows rested on his knees. His eyes tracked Miss. William's movements avidly, waiting for the dawning horror he knew would come to her delicate features, if she had any sense that was.

Miss. Williams gently brushed soot and grit off of the plastic, fingers questing for an opening. "It doesn't look like you've opened it," She remarked, looking up as she fingered the plastic seal.

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm sure enough of what it is. You said only a confession would convince you, and this is as close to a written confession as you're going to get."

A delicate eyebrow raised defiantly towards her hairline. "You're that confident, are you?"

Sherlock nodded towards the packet still resting in her hands. "See for yourself, Miss. Williams."

She held his gaze for a long moment before tearing open the seal at last. Carefully, she withdrew the book and opened it. She scanned the pages and other contents pressed inside the pages, slowly at first, then faster as the color slowly drained from her face. When she stumbled across a lock of blond hair and a photo of a too white face lolling on pale shoulders she cried out in horror and despair. The book fell from her lap and her hands covered her face as sobs wracked her small frame. She shook her head violently from side to side, muttering, "No...no, no, no, no no, no, no, no, no.. No _Charles_ , no!"

Sherlock stooped forward and plucked the book from where it lay on the floor, while John frowned in sympathy at the young women. He couldn't blame her for her reaction; all the hopes and dreams she'd held for her future were lost to her now...but she _would_ have a future.

The world's only consulting detective nodded at the bereft figure before him, "Miss. Williams," he said by way of farewell. He turned a nodded similarly at her father, who had crossed the room to kneel beside his daughter and reach for her hands. She wailed and flailed in her hysteria, and would not return his consoling grasp.

Sherlock stole from the room, and with a small nod and softly spoken, "I'm sorry," John followed him. They were leaving a terrible scene behind them but the ex-army doctor knew better than most that sometimes one had to cause pain in order to heal a greater injury.

John caught sight of Sherlock's lanky frame bending into a cab, and rushed forward to catch him. "New Scotland Yard," they said together, once they were seated. Only John thought to add, "please." Lestrade could bring the final justice to this case, with the proof they had to offer him.

They turned and looked at each other in the dim light of the street lamps, for night had fallen during their brief interview with Miss. Williams. "Come here," John said, reaching out his arms towards Sherlock's face.

Sherlock looked dubiously at his blogger, but obeyed. "I'm _fine,_ John," he insisted, deducing the ex-army doctor's intent. "I haven't been symptomatic all day." In truth he hadn't felt this well in weeks.

John's hands stole over his forehead, behind his neck, and under his jaw, feeling the natural, healthy temperature in his skin and lymph nodes that, while still swollen, no longer seemed to illicit pain when touched. "I'm fine," Sherlock repeated, his lips quirking upwards at his flatmate's foolishness.

John smiled back at him in the dark, and murmured, "Good."


	15. Precarious

**Sorry, sorry. I know this is late! I really tried not to be late, but work was a 12 hour nightmare yesterday, and I didn't even get home until past the time I would normally post. I was in such a foul mood and so tired I was almost positive I'd make a mistake, so I decided to wait until morning.**

 **I know I say thank you at the beginning of every chapter to all those who have favorited, followed, and/or left reviews for this story, and I really do mean it. There's only so many ways to say it, but knowing that someone out there is reading and enjoying what I've worked on really does make my day, so I'm going to keep saying/writing it. Thank you! ^_^**

 **Trigger warning! Very ill person who may or may not be dying from a deadly poison is described in this chapter.**

 **I hope you all enjoy this update!**

* * *

Chapter 14: Precarious

Sherlock was stooped over his microscope in the kitchen, watching his blood cells on the slide in front of him. The poison he had been infected with was insidious. It functioned, at least in part, like an auto-immune disease. He had long ago given up the idea of trying to find a solution; he _could_ do it, but not in the time he had allotted. He'd always known that Molly was smart, smarter than most people gave her credit for, but he doubted he would ever understand the single-minded passion that had driven her to murder.

He wasn't angry, there was little point in that. Lately he found that studying the effects of the poison on his body helped him to think, in the lulls between cases, when he wasn't trying to make headway on his the case of the spider, that was. Well... it wasn't that there weren't cases to consider, but now was the time to focus only on that which may bring him more information on his final case.

His final case... Sherlock felt like he was gaining ground some days, and treading water on others. This unseen villain, this... spider, had perfected the art of being invisible. There were always so many minions at play, the grand opera of London crime in motion, that it had been difficult to even begin to know there was a conductor. Sherlock had been picking at the web of this spider long before John's arrival in his life, hoping it would lead him to the source. Now, he wondered if it might not be faster to let the spider find him. He had only three months left...

Sherlock reflected back on the Dwight case and the lost laptop... There was little doubt that the spider was aware of him now. If he could not have the benefit of surprise, why not push his attack? His next move, whatever it was, would need to be fast.

Some days he felt his encroaching mortality like a noose at his throat, and others it was hard to believe he was sick at all. Lately he'd had better days more often than bad ones. Sherlock had yet to pinpoint any rhyme or reason for this... Maybe it was just a sign that everything was almost over.

"Time for dinner, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked up and frowned at John, who was leaning against the doorway to the kitchen.

"Don't give me that face," the ex-army doctor said with a warm smile, though his eyes brooked no argument. "It's been two days since I've made a point of you eating, I've been more than generous."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed like an overdramatic teenager. Since John had learned he was ill, the ex-army doctor had made a point of enforcing meals and sleep on him. It was not oppressively often, but Sherlock was perplexed and frustrated that he allowed John to have his way so easily. It was never without protest, but even so, Sherlock had made a habit of giving in when John pressed this issue. He had never given into Mycroft so easily...

He was not bereft of his contempt for mundane maintenance of his transport, nor had he lost his vigor for winning an argument. Ultimately, giving in was easier than fighting. It took less time, and he had so little time left... It was a logical and economic use of his resources to let John have his way.

The world's only consulting detective lifted his petulant gaze to John's unrepentant one.

John's lips curved into a smirk. "Are you done?" he asked, referring to Sherlock's fruitless protests.

Sherlock glowered and rose from his chair with a huff. "You're a tyrant," he sulked, pulling on his long Belstaff.

John chuckled quietly, knowing he'd called Sherlock that and worse both out loud and in his own mind. He didn't seem that much of a tyrant anymore though. The ex-army doctor enjoyed the thrill of adventure that came with each new case, he could satisfy his need to protect and heal Sherlock, and despite himself, he'd always been awed by that brilliant mind in action.

As they made their way down the steps John frowned at the early dusk that was a sure sign of winter's rapid approach. Harriet would be getting out soon, and all of this would be over. Her graduation was just ten days away... John had managed to buy train tickets for himself so that he could be there for the ceremony. Harry hadn't been clear where she wanted to live, so John had made arrangements with Mrs. Hudson to rent her basement apartment while they sorted things out. Everything was in order...

John shook himself internally and refocused on the mission in front of him. Sherlock was going to have a solid meal... Who would force him to see reason after John left? A sharp tug on his elbow brought him up short, and properly broke his reverie.

"It you don't pay attention to the traffic signs, you'll never make it to Switzerland alive," Sherlock noted, calmly observing the sea of traffic moving in front of them. John had nearly blundered into it because they didn't have the walk sign yet.

John's eyes narrowed as he looked up at his friend. "I hate that you know what I'm thinking."

Sherlock smiled smugly and simply said, "No, you don't."

John could do nothing but grumble because, as much as it irritated him, it was the truth.

They walked in a companionable silence for a while as John led the way to the Italian place that James had shown him. John smiled when he spied the strings of lights hung over the outside seating area, making it glow. It was a shame it was too cold to sit outside tonight.

Sherlock surveyed the area before them with a keen eye before proclaiming, "Ah. You met your boyfriend here for lunch before." It was not a question. He pressed on, heedless of John's darkening expression. "Avoiding him won't resolve your ambiguous feelings you know."

"He's _not_ my boyfriend," John hissed through clenched teeth, for they were nearing the front door now.

Sherlock scooted around him and held the door for him with a smug smile. "Really? Do you kiss all the men that aren't your boyfriend?"

John felt a flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck, but his glower never wavered. "Irritating me is not going to get you out of dinner," he insisted.

With an ineffectual shrug, Sherlock swept into the restaurant proper, leaving John to hurry after him. John was focused on taking deep, even breaths when the restaurant owner, whom John recognized from previous visits, appeared to seat them.

"Forgive the delay," he murmured, picking up two menu's and ushering them along. "We are a bit short-handed tonight.

"Not a problem," Sherlock replied with a blithe smile that made John suspicious.

The owner seated them in a comfortable booth by the window and handed them their menu's. "Anything to drink this evening?"

"Just water, thank you," John murmured in the most polite tone he could muster.

The owner nodded and winked at John. "Two water's right away. And I'll get a candle for your table." He leaned closer to John and added in a conspiratorial whisper, "It's more romantic, and this young gentleman is a much better choice than your last."

As soon as the owner's back was turned John rested his elbows on the table, his head in his hands, and groaned softly, "I'm _not_ his boyfriend!"

The owner, however, appeared not to hear as he wandered off, humming softly to himself.

Sherlock chuckled softly and John glared at him though the gaps in his fingers. "I'm glad I amuse you so much," he murmured wryly.

"Endlessly," Sherlock agreed, thumbing through the menu with more than his usual energy.

John sighed softly, conceding a temporary defeat, and picked up his own menu. He even managed to thank the owner when he returned with their drinks and their candle, though Sherlock's maniacal grin made him want to both throw something at him, and laugh hysterically. Sherlock had a knack for infectious laughter at the most inappropriate times. John had joined him in laughing more than once at a crime scene this month…Sherlock was most definitely a bad influence.

The owner took their orders and disappeared once more into the kitchen. John looked back at Sherlock's thoughtful face and remembered how quickly their arrangement was about to come to a close. "Are you disappointed?" John asked, peering at his flatmate over his menu.

"About what?" Sherlock asked, looking genuinely perplexed, a rare expression for him.

"That you never proved your point with me," John elaborated, taking along sip of water and looking smug.

Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment then shook his head and waived John off. "Oh, that. I won't deny that you've been a useful blogger."

John had to agree there. The cases were coming so fast now that Sherlock was actually being picky about which one's he would even consider. "And your crusade to make me, what was it you said, bitter and disillusioned?"

Sherlock's lips quirked up in a brief but honest smile. "Well, you are more stubborn than I expected at first. Time _will_ do it eventually, but I have more pressing cases to attend to I'm afraid."

John 'hmmed' thoughtfully, and set his menu aside. "Anything interesting you'd care to share? I have time to add a few more blog entries before I move." It felt so strange and unnatural to think about moving. Six months ago John never would have believed he could have felt so…comfortable with Sherlock.

"Some of my work is, as you know, very delicate," Sherlock replied, glancing away evasively, and John knew he wouldn't receive the details he'd been so curious about.

…It was a shame. Sherlock was a friend, and yet, could their friendship really survive the end of their arrangement? Sherlock Holmes didn't really _do_ friends, did he? He had them, even if he didn't want to admit it. Greg Lestrade was his friend, even if Sherlock continually drove him up a wall, stole his ID, and pretended not to remember his name. Mrs. Hudson was a friend, almost like a mother to him. Sherlock Holmes was certainly not an easy man to get to know, and John wondered if he could really count himself amongst those who know him best. They'd spent a fairly intensive six months together, but that was still only six months…

"I'll be glad to have Harry back soon," John murmured, trying for a change of topic. He was glad, really. His sister's illness had been the genesis of this whole arrangement… John would never have believed, especially in the beginning, that he would ever grow to miss the idea of being Sherlock Holmes' flatmate and blogger, but now that the end was near…he did.

"She's got as fair a chance as anyone," Sherlock conceded. "She hasn't exactly wiled away her time in treatment as so many others do."

"Do you really think that?" John asked, remembering how assured of Harry's demise Sherlock had been in the beginning… but that was before he'd taken up _writing_ her. Had his opinion changed with his correspondence?

Sherlock shrugged. "What would be the point in lying to you?"

John's eyes narrowed with unpleasant memories. "You have no compunctions about lying."

Sherlock tipped his head slightly to one side and observed John with a wry smile. "No, but I have never lied to you, John."

The ex-army doctor started with indignation, a protest flying to his lips, then quickly dying. Sherlock was right. Sherlock had been callous, maybe even vicious in their unspoken war of perspective, but he had never outright lied to him. John was prepared to be grateful for that when he realized that Sherlock had used this honesty as his primary weapon. He knew that John was a man of integrity, and any deception would destroy Sherlock's point in John's mind forever. It was a very calculated maneuver.

John's eyes focused on Sherlock once more and found the small smile still present on his cupids bow lips. Sherlock's intent may have been hard-hearted, but the good doctor found himself grateful for that terrible honesty despite himself. It had taught him to understand what to expect from the world's only consulting detective, and, quite unexpectedly, it had taught him to trust his crazy flatmate. John would have never thought it possible, and it was definitely ill-advised, but there was no denying that he did trust Sherlock.

The ex army doctor hesitated for a long moment, then asked, "How do you think she's doing?"

Sherlock assumed his thinking pose, was silent for a few beats, then said, "She's not doing well right now, because she's scared of coming back, of what that might mean for her, but that's hardly unusual. She's made a true effort to examine her behavior and what feeds it, although that terrifies her."

John nodded, remembering the night he had sent Harry to the hospital. Their lives as children had been chaotic and frightening. John had fled to order and controlled, or at least consciously chosen, danger. Harry had flown to alcohol to numb her mind and her feelings. He'd been trying to help Harry with treatment for years now, he knew there were no easy answers; he just wanted his sister to be well again... He didn't know what he would do if she-

A plate of food was set in front of him, breaking John out of his thoughts. He looked up to see the owner wink at him, before placing Sherlock's plate in front of him as well The owner wished them a good evening before hurrying off to attend to some of his other customers. John watched him go for a moment, then sighed softly a picked up his fork.

Wait... When did he order...? He paused, blinked, and looked up when he heard Sherlock chuckling softly.

"You're not going mad John, I ordered for you while you were lost in thought."

 _Oh, good._

He was three bites in before he looked pointedly at Sherlock. " _Eat_ ," he insisted, gesturing to Sherlock's food. "I already told you that would won't get out of dinner by acting petulant.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and picked up his fork.

John smiled triumphantly, shaking his head at his Flatmate's stubborn nature. "What will you ever do without me?" he asked. It had been a joke, but Sherlock's reply was soft, and serious.

"My work."

John looked up suddenly from his food, frowning. The more he thought about it, the more Sherlock's illness troubled him. Acting on impulse, John reached forward and laid his hand on the younger man's forearm. Sherlock's fork halted, pasta dangling limply from it as he looked up into John's concerned face.

"You don't need to go through this alone, Sherlock," John murmured.

The barest hint of a smile flickered on the edges of Sherlock's lips. "I know."

John returned Sherlock's barely there smile with a ghost of his own and gently squeezed the forearm under his palm.

There was a long moment of silence and shared glances before Sherlock shifted and withdrew his arm from John's grasp.

They ate in companionable silence for a while, for neither was fond of idle chit chat. Still, it was a surprisingly pleasant dinner.

John glanced up when he saw something flash in the dim light of their candle. Squinting slightly he saw a small diamond stud between Sherlock's thumb and forefinger on his right hand. He was spinning the stud between his fingers to make it catch the light, while he idly sipped from his water.

One glance informed John that Sherlock's plate was clean, which filled the doctor with a sense of satisfaction. His unruly flatmate/patient was cooperating, for now, anyway.

Glancing back at the diamond John asked, "Where did you get that?"

Sherlock looked up with a small, "Hm? Oh, this. I pick-pocketed it off of our neighbors." With a small jerk of his head, Sherlock indicated an older couple sitting at the table to their right. John glanced and his mouth slowly dropped open when he saw the woman was _missing an earring_.

"Sherlock!" John hissed, turning back to his unabashed flatmate, who was grinning now. "When did you do that?"

"When I went to the restroom."

"Why?!" John asked, struggling mightily not to laugh. Sherlock's grin was infectious, and, even though it was a bit not good, it _was_ funny. Or maybe he just thought it was funny because of all the time he had spent around Sherlock.

Sherlock's eye twinkled with suppressed mirth as he murmured, "Because I was bored."

John rested his head in his hands as his self control deserted him, and he dissolved into helpless laughter.

Sherlock, who was also laughing, leaned forward and whispered, "It's not even real. Her husband is cheating on her. The real jewelry goes to the mistress."

John wiped his eyes, which had started to tear from his laughter, and, still chuckling, gently pressed the tips of his fingers against Sherlock's lips. "Stop, just stop."

They look they shared next belied John's words. Sherlock's lips quivered with amusement under John's touch, even as he felt his heart stutter in his chest. He would have to run another EKG soon... His eyes dipped down to trace the curve of John's smile. Soon, but not now...

* * *

"What is it?" James asked, halting in a circle of light cast by one of the parks many lamps.

John turned around to face him. "Pardon?" His voice and face were carefully neutral, but he suspected his nervousness had been detected anyway.

James placed his hands on his hips and fixed John with a gaze that confirmed his suspicions. "What's bothering you?" I get that cases can keep you busy and all, and I'm grateful that you invited me out to the pub, but you've been slightly distracted all evening. You weren't as engaged in the football match as you normally were, and you barely made eye contact. Something's bothering you. What is it?"

John grimaced, then sighed. James wasn't exactly a consulting detective, but he was eerily observant sometimes. "You're right. I've been wanting to talk to you for a while."

James let his arms fall back to his sides and took a step forward. "About what?"

John felt an impulse to look away, but forced his eyes to remain on James's face as he spoke. As sorry as he was to hurt his friend, his silence would only result in more damage. "I shouldn't have let you kiss me." James stilled, but John pressed on. "You've been a good friend to me, and perhaps I've leaned on you too much, especially after you told me how you felt. It was wrong of me to abuse your affections like that, and I apologize."

James' face tilted slightly, and confusion swept over his features. "Is...is this about Sherlock?"

John started and took a step back. "What?! No! Why would you think that?" John had become inured to the insinuations of Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade, and the general public, but he never expected James would give credence to any such thoughts.

James shrugged and turned half away. "Well, You've been spending more and more time with him lately." He turned his head back and looked at John meaningfully. "It seems like you need less time away from him, and then when we are together, you don't..." James paused for a moment and licked his lips as though he was struggling to find the right words. "You don't even complain about him anymore."

John blinked slowly, processing the words. Was James _jealous_? No. Impossible. Ridiculous. There was nothing to be jealous of. He was just adjusting to the bizarre turn his life had taken. "He's still the same old, Sherlock, James. He's just...I don't know. I guess he's grown on me or something." John fought the urge to smile fondly, that would not help him accomplish his purpose.

James scuffed the group with his feet for a moment, before looking back up at John. "And this isn't about a case?" He asked, confusing John even more. James rushed to explain. "You've been telling me about this big case that he's working. He wouldn't tell you much about it before, but if you're working it together... I don't know. His work is dangerous and your caught up in it. Some people think they have to distance themselves from people they care about, their friends, when their doing dangerous work. That never made any sense to me, but..." James shrugged. "I just didn't want you to feel like that was something you had to do, if that's what brought this on."

John shook his head and frowned. Hadn't he just been thinking that James could be eerily observant? Emphasis on sometimes, because this was so far from the mark it was baffling.

"No," John assured him. "No, it's nothing like that. Sherlock's still completely silent about his secret case. I don't know anything more about it." John took a deep breath, then stepped forward and placed his hand on James' arm. "James, this is just about me apologizing to you. It was unfair of me to participate in that kiss when I knew your feelings, and my own situation hasn't changed." He squeezed James' arm gently. "I'm not in a good place for any sort of relationship right now. My sister still needs a lot of care, and-I'm just not there, James. I'm sorry."

James nodded in understanding, his soft brown eyes gazing steadily into John's. "Everyone always says that love finds you, particularly when you aren't ready for it."

John wasn't sure if that was another plea for John to change his mind, or an attempt to change the topic subtly, or something else... It had no right to, but somehow, it felt like a warning. A chill ran silently down John's spine as he replied, "Well, if I found myself in love I would have to deal with that then. I'm certainly not going to help the process along when things are still so chaotic. It would be irresponsible."

James nodded solemnly. "I understand. I'm sorry, too." He glanced around the quiet park they'd been walking through and said, "This is a good place to go our separate ways."

John couldn't tell if he was talking physically (because James' flat was to the left while 221 B was to the right) or in general. Either way he nodded. James smiled, they shook hands, and then he turned away.

John watched him go for a moment before turning away, his hands braced in his pockets to keep them warm. This was the first time since he met James that he had felt uneasy in his presence, and was eager to get away. John tried to shrug it off as the awkwardness he had excepted during this conversation, but a creeping suspicion lingered all the way home.

* * *

John's cheery, 'I'm home!' died on his lips when he flicked on the lights and there was an answering groan of pain from the sofa. His gaze flew to the crumpled form of the world's only consulting detective huddled in a tight ball under a quilt on the sofa. John didn't even pause to take off his coat as he closed the distance between them and knelt by Sherlock's head.

"Sherlock," he murmured, reaching out to touch his friend's shoulder. "What's wrong."

He felt Sherlock take a slow, deep breath and leaned towards him in time to catch the barest murmur, "Migraine..."

John frowned as his fingers quested deeper into the burrow of blankets, seeking Sherlock's forehead. They both flinched when he made contact. Sherlock because of his current sensitivity to stimulation, and John because of the heat he found there. "You have a fever, again..."

The ex-army doctor rose and crossed back to the light switch, turning off the light. He'd always been able to see well in the dark, a task that had served him well in his career. Harry was even better, she could find a small black object in a dark room without even trying...when she was sober.

Right, one thing at a time. John crossed again to Sherlock's side. "You're going to have to come out of that blanket," he said softly. Sherlock grunted softly and did not move. "Can you swallow anything?"

"No..."

John nodded grimly and stood. "When I come back you need to be out from under that blanket." He turned and silently mounted the stairs to his room. Once there he turned on his light and gathered the things that he needed, placing the items on his neatly made bed.

When he'd finished, John surveyed the items once more before gathering them up and heading back down the stairs. He left the light in his room on. The light trailing after him down the stairs shouldn't affect Sherlock much because it would be so dim in the living room, but it would give John some additional light to see by.

Sherlock was indeed out from under his blanket, stretched flat on the sofa, and trembling with shivers from his fever. John wasn't sure if he should be pleased or worried that Sherlock had complied so easily.

Leaning over his ill flatmate, John hooked an IV bag to a nail which protruded from the wall above the sofa, and unraveled the tube. John knelt beside him and held up his one good silk tie. "I thought you might want this, to help block out the light."

Sherlock looked wretched, but he still had the energy to arch an eyebrow at him and murmur in a low voice, "Fifty shades of Watson?"

John bit back a laugh and asked, "Do you want it, or not?"

"Well, you _did_ buy me dinner."

"You're impossible," John chuckled, and laid the tie loosely over Sherlock's eyes. He tugged on some blue medical gloves and gently grasped Sherlock's arm. "I'm going to give you some fluids and some fever reducers with the IV. Any objections?"

"No," Sherlock breathed, and John winced in sympathy before bending to his task. He was grateful that he'd thought to ask James for these supplies several weeks ago—before the kiss. Sherlock had needed IV solution for…something, and John had seized the opportunity to grab a little extra, along with some injectable fever reducer. It did nag his conscience, but James had always allowed him to assist around the morgue when he needed things for Sherlock. …That probably wouldn't be an option anymore…

John took a breath and refocused. One disaster at a time. Once the IV was flowing and the medicine was in, John gathered up the refuse and deposited them in the bin in the kitchen. When he returned to Sherlock's side he was pleased to find him breathing a little easier. He hoped the medicines were working. "I could rub your scalp, if you think it would help," John offered, keeping his voice low. Harry had sometimes found that helpful during a migraine, and other times she wanted nothing to do with him.

Sherlock offered a languid thumbs up, and John helped him maneuver until John was sitting on the sofa with Sherlock's head pillowed in his lap.

"Just tell me or stop me if I'm not helping," John murmured as his fingers slipped into Sherlock's dark curly locks. Sherlock 'hmmed' softly, leaning into the gentle touch. John smiled as he worked, glad to be able to ease his friend's pain. The repetitive motions were soothing and it wasn't long before John felt himself grow drowsy, but he pressed on until Sherlock's breathing was the deep even rhythm of sleep.


	16. Belied

**Okay, I know I'm late, but this is only partially my fault. I've been trying for ages since Saturday to upload this chapter, and it was NOT working. Still, I apologize for the lateness. I may move my posting day to Saturday if work remains as busy as it has been.**

 **Thank you to everyone who has left reviews, favorited, and/or followed this story! ^_^ You're support means a lot to me.**

 **I hope you enjoy the next installment!**

* * *

Chapter 15: Belied

John shook himself as he slipped inside 221 B, and closed the door behind him. Normally they kept the door to their flat open, Mrs. Hudson and clients were always welcome, but the temperature had fallen so low overnight that John had made a point of keeping it shut today. It would save on the heating bill, and Sherlock didn't need a chill right now.

John frowned as he hung up his jacket then nodded to himself. There was a strong fire crackling in the fireplace, casting its golden light on the world's only consulting detective. Sherlock seemed utterly absorbed in his task as he tuned his violin. The ex-army doctor had made a point of closely monitoring his friend recently, since Sherlock couldn't be trusted or bothered to tell others when he was feeling poorly. He was still, mostly, having good days, but John could see the beginnings of a troubling pattern. John was already making plans to insinuate himself into 221B from time to time, even after he'd moved into the basement with Harry.

"Did you get the milk?" Sherlock asked, idly adjusting putting rosin on his bow.

John smirked and held up the Tesco's bag. "Yes, and an extra carton of whole milk for your experiments."

"We were out of the two percent milk you like for your tea?" Sherlock asked, still too absorbed in his task to lift his eyes to John's.

"We're _always_ out of milk, Sherlock," John replied wryly as he made his way into the kitchen. "You never get any, and you keep finding the most bizarre reasons to pilfer mine!" John's tone was irritated, but it was belied by the affectionate smile on his lips.

John was just coming back into the living room with two cups of tea when Mrs. Hudson peeked her head inside the flat, knocking softly on the door as she opened it. "Sorry to bother you boys," she chirped. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything, your door is almost never closed." Her eyes roamed around eagerly as she spoke, almost as if she hoped she _had_ caught them in the middle of something.

John, who had long ago stopped trying to correct her (It wasn't worth it—she was convinced John had rented 221 C for Harry only) smiled warmly and greeted her. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson. What have you got there?"

Mrs. Hudson glanced down at the letter in her hands, then held it out to John. "Oh, the postman just dropped this off for you."

John accepted the letter with a quiet, "Thank you." He smiled when he saw Harry's familiar scratchy writing. He wasn't expecting another letter, he was leaving for Switzerland tomorrow, but he was always pleased to hear from his sister.

"You're welcome, dearie," Mrs. Hudson replied, turning back towards the door, with a wink. "I'll let you get back to your afternoon."

John watched her go with an exasperated smile. When the door was shut behind her he murmured, "I really think she's going to start planning our wedding soon." He turned to Sherlock and found that the younger man had set down his violin and was walking towards him. "Why haven't you ever tried to help me correct her assumptions?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Because it's quite pointless, and she's already started planning."

"What?!" John was sure if he should be indignant or amused.

"It's only a planning scrapbook of sorts, it won't do any harm." As he spoke Sherlock's gaze was fixed on the letter John he'd in his hands.

John frowned. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock gestured to the letter. "It's not good news."

The ex-army doctor paled as he refocused on the letter, immediately tore it open, and pulled out a letter that was crinkled and stained with what John suspected where tears.

 _Dear Johnny,_

There were many hesitation marks and scribbles after Harry's greeting, as though she didn't know how to begin.

 _Damn it... I fucked up again, Johnny. I just...damn it!_

The letter was almost torn after that first sentence from the vehemence of Harry's writing.

 _I drank again, Johnny. It was three days before my graduation and I snuck out into the town...into a pub. I was so shitfaced when I stumbled back that they put me in the detox wing overnight._

 _I'm so, so sorry. I know I shouldn't have. I_ _ **know**_ _it was stupid, I just... I felt trapped, Johnny. That's stupid, isn't it? But that's how I felt. It was like my old life was coming for me, and there was nothing I could do to stop it._

 _I've managed to stay sober here...until recently. But that doesn't really mean anything, Johnny, not really. There's so much support and counseling here that just isn't there on the outside. I don't feel like I can be or deserve to be sober. What good have I ever honestly done anyone, Johnny? All I've ever been is in the way, or a burden, and to people who least deserve it._

 _I don't know why people care about me, I really don't. I'm no good, and I'll always be no good!_

John was shaking his head slightly as he read, whishing his sister was here so that he could talk some sense into her, or shake her, or something.

 _There's this girl I've met here, Johnny, her name is Madaline. She's recovering from a pretty bad heroin addiction. Anyway, she came to visit me in the detox wing the morning after I came back. She looked angry and I thought for sure she was going to yell at me and tell me how disappointed she was, or try to tell me some shit like "Everything's gonna be okay," but she didn't. She just stood there for a long moment then threw herself at me and hugged me. She said she was so worried, and she was so glad that I was still alive... She reminded me of you, Johnny._

 _I talked with her and my counselors for a long time that morning. I told them everything I've just told you, and I begged them to let me stay anyway. I begged them to let me stay because if I don't find a way to live in the world without alcohol I am going to die... I don't want to die, I don't. Even though I don't think I'm worth anything, and even though the world can be such a shitty place... It can't be all that bad if there's people like you and Madaline, and the counselors here._

 _...I don't know if I can come back to England, Johnny. I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry but that's really something I'm going to need to consider. I really need to take a hard look at what will be best for me. My counselor, Rebecca, told me that sometimes desperation can be a gift. It can help us look past barriers we've set up that are keeping us trapped where we don't want to be. Alcohol is everywhere, so is everything, really, so it's not like I can move to a place that will be fool proof, but I need to take a long hard look at what will really be best and safest for me._

 _They're letting me stay, thank God. They think another three months or so will help me do what I need to do. I hope...I hope it's not too much to ask, Johnny, for your to keep helping me, just this little bit longer. I promise I will give it my everything. I love you, little brother, and I hope that I can live to be a big sister who's worthy of you._

 _Please write back soon._

 _All my love,_

 _Harry._

John's breath caught in his throat as he read, wanting to be there for his sister. She had only written this yesterday.. . Should he still go to Switzerland? To visit? He wanted to fix this, but addiction is a chronic disease, and its treatment requires the active participation of those afflicted.

He was vaguely aware of Sherlock close behind him, almost touching his back as he leaned over John's shoulder to read. He shivered when he felt Sherlock's long fingered hand come to rest on his shoulder. The touch was gentle, as though not wanting to irritate the scar tissue underneath the fabric of John's shirt. The ex-army doctor turned his head to look at Sherlock, only a little surprised to find him alarmingly close; he never did pay attention to things like personal space.

"I would call her, but I wouldn't visit her," Sherlock murmured.

John frowned but he didn't reply, instead pulling out his phone and dialing the number to the Edelweiss Recovery Center. He listened to the phone ring and was forced to admit that Sherlock was right, even if he didn't like it. Hadn't Harry mentioned in some of her early letters that John was always rescuing her, and that she had to learn how to rescue herself? John most definitely didn't like that thought...but it _was_ true.

A calm, clear voice picked up the line. "Edelweiss Recovery Center, Lynn speaking. How can I help you?"

"This is John Watson, I'd like to speak to my sister, Harry Watson."

There was a small pause before the clear voice replied, "Hold please."

"Right," John murmured, tapping his foot impatiently on the living room floor as he listened to some tediously irritating hold music. Two, maybe three minutes later, Harry's voice carried over the line.

"Johnny!"

John smiled. She seemed much happier now than she had been when she wrote that letter.

"Hey, Harry, it's good to hear your voice."

"Johnny, you have the single _best_ flatmate in England!" Harry enthused, almost yelling in her excitement. "Is he there? If he's there you _have_ to give him a hug for me! Also, let me say thank you to him!"

Her words brought John up short and he glanced at Sherlock, who looked like he just might be fighting a smile. "I'm sorry?"

"He sent me this package, Johnny," Harry rushed to explain. "I just received it this morning. Here, wait, I have the letter on me." There was a brief pause filled with the sound of rustling paper, before Harry spoke again. "He sent me a small gift, too. The letter says:

' _Harriet,_

 _You should receive this the day before your intended graduation. Your hesitation to plan for your return has not escaped me, and there is only a 32 % chance that your graduation will continue as planned. If so, then congratulations, and please accept this as a gift to commemorate said graduation. If you, in fact, do relapse, as I suspect you might, then please accept this gift with my congratulations anyway._

 _If you have relapsed, and still received this, it means you have not left. Most people run away from difficult things because it is easier and less painful._

 _You and I have argued about whether or not I am, indeed, in recovery, because while I no longer use substances, barring tobacco here and there, I do engage in a consuming set of behaviors that have equal, if not greater ability to be of harm to my person._

 _If you are going to remain sober, your best chance is in focusing your thoughts and actions on what motivates you, and what you can live with. That is the short version of what I have seen as 'successful' in cases of addiction._

 _You're continued stay will be paid for; my blogger is only moderately irritating and the cases his writing generates more than make up for the invasion upon my flat._

 _\- Sherlock Holmes'_

Isn't that wonderful, Johnny? _"_ Harry asked, as she finished her recital of Sherlock's letter.

John blinked in slow comprehension. "He sent you a gift?"

Harry laughed into the phone, and John could almost hear her nodding. "He did. A CD with some violin music on it. Not just classical stuff, some of my favorite songs! Is he there? You have to put me on with him if he's there!"

John looked over at Sherlock who was already holding out his hand and said, "Uh, yeah, sure. Here he is."

Sherlock accepted the phone and brought it to his ear. "Greetings Harry." He paused to listen and John could hear Harry's excited voice, but not any of her words. Sherlock sighed softly and rolled his eyes at her exuberance, but John thought he saw amusement in his flatmate's countenance as well as impatience. The world's only consulting detective was a difficult man to live with, and almost impossible to understand, but as John leaned closer and Sherlock's gaze met his, John was sure he was correct.

"Yes, you're welcome." Sherlock paused as Harry's voice broke in again. "No, it's no imposition." His gaze slid to John's and an amused smile finally made itself known as he added, "I've broken your brother of most of his bad habits."

John scoffed and crossed his arms, willing himself not to smile, because that would only encourage Sherlock. The amused smile shifted into a smirk and John knew he'd been found out anyway.

"Yes, he's still here… You're welcome," Sherlock said, leaning over to hand the phone back to John.

"Isn't he amazing?" Harry asked once John had lifted the phone back to his ear.

John glanced over at his flatmate and smiled slowly. "Yeah, he's pretty special." Sherlock huffed in what John perceived to be mock indignation and strolled back into the living room to review his case requests.

"I can't stay too much longer, I've got group counseling in a few minutes, but thank you so, so much Johnny, for everything."

John opened his mouth, caught himself on the verge of saying, 'Anything for you, Harry,' and instead changed it to, "You're welcome." He would do anything for his sister, and he also needed to learn not to come to her rescue when she didn't really need it. "Work hard in group."

"I will, I promise," Harry replied. "I love you, Johnny."

"I love you too, sis, always." John ended the call and made his way casually into the living room.

Sherlock was just setting down a letter on the mantle when he turned to face John and frowned. "I know that expression."

John feigned innocence. "What expression?"

"You're about to hug me," Sherlock muttered, as if pained.

"Damn right I'm going to hug you," John agreed, pulling Sherlock into a tight embrace.

Sherlock gave a put upon sigh and wrapped his arms around John as well, patting his back for emphasis. "Are you going to let me go now?"

John smiled and snuggled closer into the embrace. "No."

Sherlock tugged his coat tighter around himself as he walked, not because he thought it would help with the chill in his bones—that was the poison, but so the oversized garment would cover his profile, and help disguise his height and weight. He was trudging too, his worn out soles scraping the pavement as he shuffled along.

So many people were amazed at his "art of disguise." Sherlock bit back a snort of derisive laughter. Idiots. People paid such superficial attention to each other these days that it hardly took any energy at all. Worn out clothing smeared with dirt and oil, a calculated slump around his hips and shoulders to reduce his height, a dull brown wig which had seen better days, and he looked like any other person sleeping rough. Sherlock barely bothered to smudge dirt on his hands and face, the clothes where almost enough on their own.

No one looked at the homeless, no one acknowledged them. They were utterly invisible, which made them the perfect informants. For many years Sherlock had utilized a homeless network, otherwise known as the Baker Street Irregulars, to assist him in his cases. He was discreet, to the point, always paid what he offered, and so he was trusted. They were more reliable than any other workforce Sherlock had encountered. They weren't all decent people, but the majority were, and their circumstances taught them to observe what most people simply ignored.

Sherlock had recently begun to utilize his homeless network to undermine crime in London. They infiltrated and betrayed as many people as they could safely get away with, and the New Scotland Yard tip line had never been so busy. It was effective, but sloppy. The thought made Sherlock grimace. If only he had more time…

The spider he was after wasn't untouchable, but they were immaculate. All of Sherlock's attempts to follow the web back to the originator had failed, regardless of how subtle. Every time there was the slightest hint that anyone might be closing in the spider severed its line and disappeared. With more time he could move slowly, pen this spider in its own traps, but the time for subtlety was over.

Sherlock slumped onto a nearby pack bench, cupped his hands in front of his face, and blew hot air onto them three times before he muttered, "How's the pressure cooker?"

The homeless man beside him grunted in acknowledgement. His arms were crossed under his armpits for warmth, and his head was leaned back so that his face pointed up to the cloud covered night sky. "Started slow, but I figure it's picken up pace now." The man leaned over his shoulder, away from Sherlock, and spat onto the ground. "More an' more people are helpin' watch the pressure."

The man, Bill Wiggins, was Sherlock's longest standing member of the Baker Street Irregulars. Sherlock had commissioned him as the head of this last little project, which Sherlock had coded, "The Pressure Cooker." As much as Sherlock despised the dramatization of the names John assigned his cases when he posted them on his blog, this code name allowed for a casual discussion between two semi-delirious homeless persons which no passerby would think anything of, or even remember.

Sherlock nodded, pleased, and his hands came up to assume his thinking pose. "It's important to watch all the angles of a pressure cooker. If any of the seals break loose the meat won't cook through."

Wiggins nodded slowly. "Pressure's holding steady at the water front and by the warehouses. Did you see the lights they're putting up in the heart of town?"

A brief smile flittered on Sherlock's features and was gone. When Wiggins spoke of the water front and warehouses he was referring to the drug trade, the black market, and gang activities. The lights was a reference to all the helpful tips the Yard was suddenly getting. His team was at work, expanding and applying as much pressure as they could, but they couldn't do it all.

Sherlock had been at work interfering with high level crime, using his own computer, for once, to hack private e-mails, chat rooms, web sites, and whatever else he could get into. He wasn't looking for information, or even trying to be subtle; his only objective was to create enough obvious cyber activity to make people wary enough to cancel meetings, and back out of deals. Sherlock had stuck his nose into as many sectors as he could reach. It had meant declining almost every other case recently, but it was a necessary evil. As appealing as some of those cases were, it was time for his final push.

Wiggins sucked in a breath, then sighed. Something was bothering him. "What made you want to cook this spider, anyway?" Sherlock shot him a sharp, sidelong glance, and he rushed to continue, "I just mean that a pressure cooker can be dangerous. Too much pressure an' the thing'll explode."

Sherlock nodded in understanding. Wiggins was worried about his income stream being cut off if things should go wrong for Sherlock. "I'm not going to be cooking anything after the 1st of the month. Time for a change of pace." Wiggins frowned and Sherlock turned to face him. He hadn't been clear, Wiggins could take that statement to mean that Sherlock was leaving London, or that he wouldn't be working cases anymore. It didn't matter how he took it, both were, technically, true.

The concern etched on Wiggins face brought Sherlock up short. Wiggins could act almost as well as Sherlock himself, it was one of the things that helped him survive sleeping rough, but this didn't seem feigned. Wiggins actually reached forward and placed a hand on his knee. "I'll keep an eye on the pressure cooker for you." His voice thick with confusion and compassion.

Sherlock nodded, then stood, "Thank you," escaping his lips before he could pull it back. He never thanked people. He never apologized. He's always been focused solely on his work, especially with the Baker Street Irregulars. He mentally shook himself and started off, shuffling his way back to 221 B. The poison must be getting to his brain, now; he'd certainly felt it make its presence known everywhere else.

It wouldn't be long now, one way or the other. He'd only just lengthened his agreement with John, but he had been expecting that. He hadn't originally expected that John and his final case may intersect, but now that he was stirring up trouble he'd have to send John out to investigate some of the lesser cases. He'd done that in the past, when he couldn't be bothered to go in person. John wasn't completely hopeless, and…it wouldn't be fair for him to get caught in the crossfire…


	17. Overcome

**Greetings everyone! As of today I officially move posting days to Saturdays. Work is being way too hard on me for me to be able to guarantee Friday postings anymore, unfortunately. It was only a few Fridays ago that I didn't even get home until after I normally post, but when I get home before I've been so dead to the world lately it's all I can do not to drown in the bathtub before I make it up to bed. _**

 **Always, here is the next installment, I hope you enjoy it!**

 **Many thanks to all those who have left reviews, favorited, and/or followed this story! ^_^ You're support makes me smile even on the most wretched work days.**

 **Trigger warnings: This chapter does touch on broken hearts and persons struggling with addiction and depression. Please be safe.**

* * *

Chapter 16: Overcome

John leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his folded hands, studying the board. He'd never considered himself to be particularly good at chess, but he at least knew how to play, and it seemed to be one of the few games Sherlock and he could actually play peaceably. Scrabble was only an education in insults and the depths of Sherlock's archaic vocabulary. Card games were and exercise in frustration, and the Cluedo disaster had almost come to blows.

The ex-army doctor glanced up, and found Sherlock studying him with an amused smile. "What?"

"Nothing," Sherlock replied with a shrug.

"Uh-huh," John retorted with a smirk of his own. He knew Sherlock was good enough to thrash him in probably ... seven moves, but he hadn't. Maybe he was cataloging John's responses, or seeing how many different ways or strategies could be used to win and how quickly. Whatever it was, John was grateful that _something_ was entertaining that brilliant mind enough for its host to be civil.

They had never had many quiet evenings at 221B to begin with. John smiled and shook his head as he thought about the beginning of their relationship...arrangement. He never, ever would have believed that he would come to feel at peace here, much less happy...but he was.

Sherlock was still Sherlock, and whether John wanted to admit it or not, that had a certain appeal. Living with the world's only consulting detective had brought the adrenaline rushes John had lived on in the army, as well as someone to protect, however reluctant they were to cooperate.

John fought the urge to look up at his flatmate, instead leaning forward a bit more, as though studying the board. He wasn't sure how he'd ever managed to convince Sherlock to play chess in the first place. Since he'd found out about Sherlock's illness, John had made a point of regularly checking his flatmate's vitals, as well as insisting on dinner every other day, when they weren't on a case, that is. The only way anyone could force Sherlock to do anything while on a case was for John to bodily dive tackle him out of the most immediate danger. Anything else was beyond impossible, and John knew how to pick his battles.

The chess, though, that had been unexpected. They had been talking one night after dinner, and John had commented on the elaborate chess set that Sherlock had tucked away in a corner of the sitting room. Sherlock had brought it out onto the coffee table and regaled John about one of his early cases where the pieces of the set had been left as taunts by a serial killer at the site of each victims kidnapping. Sherlock had deduced that the pieces were being left in an order that mimicked a well known game between the dubious super computer, Deep Blue, and the Russian grandmaster Kasparov. The analogy, as Sherlock told it had been, "tediously dramatic."

The memory made John smile and he wiped a hand over his mouth in an attempt to hide it. He'd sat in awe as Sherlock had detailed his deductions and subsequent capture of the killer. When the story was done John hadn't wanted to go straight to bed. He dawdled over the pieces, running his fingers over a knight when Sherlock moved a pawn, loudly clacking it down of the surface of the board. John had glanced up amused and surprised to find a challenge on Sherlock's face.

" _There's no possible way I could win._ " John had replied, smirking back before he could help himself.

" _That's no reason not to play_ ," Sherlock countered in his rumbling baritone.

There was no arguing with that logic, so John had played.

"The game, John."

It took he ex-army doctor a moment to realize that Sherlock had spoken. He looked up with furrowed brows. "I'm sorry?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Well you should be. Your concentration is appalling. How do you ever expect to improve if you can't even think about what you're doing?"

"I _was_ thinking about chess," John said defensively.

The world's only consulting detective cocked an eyebrow at him. "Not _this_ match though."

John grumbled, but didn't bother to ask how Sherlock had known what he was thinking, the explanation would only distract him further. He would never figure out how Sherlock's mind worked. He moved one of his bishops.

Sherlock clucked his tongue and moved a rook.

John studied the board a moment, then moved a pawn. He was trying, and he thought he had improved. The chess games between them had become almost as regular as John's enforced dinners... There were still cases, but...something was different. John couldn't quite place his finger on it. The pacing of the cases felt off, and Sherlock seemed to attack the cases he did take with a different kind of focus. He was still brilliant, John doubted that would ever change, but something was off, and it made him uneasy.

"Have you made any headway on the case?" John asked, taking a pawn with his queen.

Sherlock frowned and looked up. "What case? We're not working a case right now."

John held Sherlock's gaze steadily with his own. He was worried, and he didn't want to scare Sherlock off. "We're not, but you are."

Sherlock blinked and looked down and slid a rook sideways. "Your move."

"Sherlock," John admonished softly. He remained still, studying his flatmate's profile until Sherlock lifted his gaze once more. "You can tell me," John continued. "Whatever this is, you don't have to deal with it alone."

Sherlock held John's gaze impassively while his mind whirled with activity. He wanted to... God, did he want to. He couldn't remember the last time he had wanted to confide in someone. John made it too damned easy. Somehow he managed to thrive, even enjoy the chaos that was Sherlock's life, and he remained so steady at the same time. After everything that Sherlock had done to make him miserable, and Sherlock had implemented a great many methods, John didn't hate him. He had, at first, but now...John cared.

It was so foolish, reckless, dangerous... Perhaps if things had been different, if he wasn't dying... If he wasn't hastening his own death by doing everything in his limited power to draw an enemy that might just be his intellectual equal out into the open instead of laying a more calculating and time consuming trap... But even if that were true, Sherlock would still be himself, and he didn't have... friends.

Sherlock wanted to...but he couldn't. Instead he licked his lips and murmured, "What makes you so sure?"

"You've been different on cases lately," John replied, taking Sherlock's bishop without breaking eye contact. "Despite that fact that their flooding in, you're being picky."

"I have the right to be picky," Sherlock replied indignantly, moving his queen into play.

John nodded. "Granted, but it still feels like more is going on. Don't forget I've found you tied up in papers and notes and God knows what else more than once in the past few months. You normally only do that for cases, but none of those episodes seem connected to any cases we've been working. Normally I don't know all the details of our cases until the end, but this has been going on for so long that it must be a big case. If it's a big case and you haven't told me about it, it's because you don't want me to know." John slid his queen diagonally across the board, taking one of Sherlock's rooks. He didn't think for one second that he would get away with it, but there was a possibility he could put Sherlock in check soon. Maybe even check mate.

Sherlock leaned forward, hovering over the board slightly. "And If I didn't want you to know about this supposed case, what makes you think you would?" Long, elegant fingers shifted, advancing a knight towards John's king.

"You're brilliant, Sherlock, but you're still human," John said softly. "We've lived together for over half a year now. You can't hide forever." The good doctor glanced down and a smile flittered across his face as he slid his queen into check. He didn't even have the chance to speak before one of Sherlock's pawns snatched John's queen off the board.

John's mouth dropped open in amazement and he sputtered, "How?"

Sherlock smirked. "Your queen is your most important piece. She can be the heart of a game; you have a bad habit of over utilizing her."

"The queen is also the most versatile piece." John glanced down at the board, then gestured to it. "How does it make any sense to barricade her in?" Sherlock had indeed thoroughly surrounded his queen with other, more expendable pieces.

Sherlock straightened in his seat. "The king is right beside her, It's her job to protect him."

John frowned at the board, moving a pawn out. "It feels more effective to put her out there where she can do the most good, attack the enemy directly."

Sherlock, John's queen still cupped in his palm, maneuvered his knight, putting John into check mate. "Game," he murmured softly, using John's queen to tip over John's king.

John looked up and smiled ruefully. "I told you I couldn't win against you the first time we played."

"That's still no reason not to play," Sherlock insisted, righting the pieces. "You are improving... marginally."

John rolled his eyes and bent to help Sherlock with the clean up. Sherlock had said the queen could be the heart of a game... John wondered if that was an analogy Sherlock lived by: Putting your heart out there was a risk not worth taking.

They stood together and John moved around the chess board, reaching out his hand to Sherlock. "Good game," he murmured.

It was Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes, but he accepted John's hand in his. John flinched when they came into contact.

"Jesus, you're cold!"

Sherlock's lips quirked up into a smirk. "That's what they tell me."

"Lies," John murmured with a small smile, "that's just what you want people to think." Both of John's hands came up to surround Sherlock's rubbing it gently to try to improve circulation. The good doctor paused and reached for Sherlock's other hand, frowning when he found it just as cold. He held both hands then, rubbed them both, before finally lifting them both up, close to his mouth and expelling a few hot breaths over the fingertips. John's eyes locked with Sherlock's as he breathed warmth back into his extremities.

John was struck by the intensity of Sherlock's gaze. He was an intense man in general, but it was something altogether different to have that intensity fixed on you. "Is that better?" John murmured, his breath ghosting over Sherlock's hands while his own resumed their gentle rubbing.

Sherlock _wanted_ to make a sarcastic comment that there had been nothing wrong in the first place, but the words died before they could even make it to his lips. Instead he nodded, his fingers twitching with the repressed urge to curl around John's.

The ex-army doctor frowned slightly, stepping closer. They were less than an inch apart when John lifted his hand to press the back of it gently against Sherlock's forehead.

"I don't have a fever," Sherlock insisted softly.

John's frown deepened for a moment even as amusement danced in his eyes. Sherlock seemed to be right, but still... "You never tell me when you do have one, do you?" John's lips quirked upwards slightly and he let his hand trail lightly over and around Sherlock's neck, confirming that although he looked flushed, his temperature was well within normal limits.

The hint of a pout pushed our Sherlock's bottom lip a bit. "I do when you ask me directly."

John fought to suppress a light chuckle. It was true that Sherlock had never outright lied to John, but that wasn't the point. "That's not the same as trusting me."

They were awfully close now; Sherlock could feel the breath of John's words on his face. He swallowed. "I-I _do_ trust you," Sherlock breathed. This was not a productive discussion. In fact it was dangerous. The world's only consulting detective struggled to pull his thoughts together, but John was so _close_ that they kept slipping away from him.

John's right eyebrow quirked up a bit. "Yeah? Good." He leaned up and forward a fraction of an inch, and then they were kissing. It was just the gentle press of lips, but it was soft and sweet. John marveled that even Sherlock's lips felt cold, and he moved his own against them to warm them.

Sherlock sucked in a breath, his heart pounding in his ears as his free hand, the one not still held by his blogger, came to rest ineffectually on John's shoulder. This was... He should... push John away, but... Sherlock felt the first tentative touch of John's tongue against his own, when the sharp trill of John's ringtone forced them apart.

John flushed, chagrined and stepped back. "Sorry, give me a moment." He lifted his phone out of his pocket and frowned at the number on the screen. He instantly accepted the call and lifted the phone to his ear. "Hello?" his voice was clipped with worry. It was the Edelweiss Recovery Center. John paled as a voice spoke quickly into his ear, too muffled for Sherlock to make out properly. "Oh, my God. When?! Is she okay?!"

John had taken a few more steps back and turned away from Sherlock so that he could focus all of his attention on this call. He never heard the slight vibration that was Sherlock's text alert. Taking slow, deep breaths in the hopes of restoring normal vitals, Sherlock pulled his phone out and stared at the screen.

 _The itsy-bitsy spider_

 _climbed up the water spout..._

A chill ran down Sherlock's spine and he glanced up to see John furiously scribbling notes on paper as he barked questions into the phone. "What is her blood pressure? Has she been responsive to light or sound? What is her O2 sat?"

Harriet had relapsed again. Badly enough that she had possibly had a seizure and been rendered unconscious.

Sherlock's phone buzzed again, and he looked back down.

 _Down came the rain_

 _and washed the spider out...  
_

John's fist hit the desk with a blow so forceful that Sherlock suspected he may have cracked the wood. "Damnit!... No, I'm sorry, I'm here. I just can't believe..."

The voice in John's ear was talking again and the good doctor was nodded, his jaw clenched tight in pain.

Another text vibrated in Sherlock's palm.

 _Out came the sun_

 _and dried up all the rain..._

Sherlock hurriedly shoved his phone into his pocked when John whirled around. The ex-army doctor swiped furiously at his eyes for a moment before violently shoving his phone back into his pocket. He didn't bother with an explanation. Even if Sherlock hadn't been the most brilliant man in London, what was happening was obvious. "We need to leave. There's a train to Switzerland at 11:00pm. If we hurry we can make it."

" _You_ need to leave," Sherlock corrected. His tone was soft, but it fell on deaf ears. Sherlock watched his blogger stiffen from his head to his toes.

"You're not coming with me?" John breathed, his eyes flittering over Sherlock's face as if searching for something, before their gazes finally locked.

Sherlock let the silence speak for him and saw John's expression harden. When John spoke again his voice was thick with emotion. "After everything?" That was John to a fault. Loyal, patient, trusting... Sherlock's phone buzzed faintly for the final time.

The world's only consulting detective turned away so that John wouldn't see him swallow. Swallowing was a key giveaway that a person was experiencing intense emotions and trying to hide them. He'd used it to verify countless lies.

"She's your sister," Sherlock muttered, when he could speak again. "This arrangement has always been about her." He could hear John's shoulder stiffen inside his horrid jumper.

"You're absolutely right," John deadpanned. "It's my fault for forgetting that."

Sherlock moved towards his violin and began to rosin the bow so that he would have something to do with his hands. He heard John turn and stride up the stairs to his bedroom. He tracked John's footfalls as he collected his belongings in a small overnight bag. He counted the 13 steps as John tread them to make his way back to the living room.

"I'll have Mrs. Hudson collect my things in a few days." Sherlock forced himself not to nod in response as he adjusted the strings on his violin and tried it out to make sure it was well tuned. It always was, of course.

John was angry enough that he didn't skip the creaking step as he tromped outside and shut the door behind him. The ex-army didn't slam the door as he left, Sherlock knew he had too much self-control for that. Still, the creak of the wood as it settled into place reverberated through him like a thunderclap. His mind flittered back to a much louder crash that had sent piano keys flying... Sherlock closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe.

John had to go... It was better this way... it was safer...

Setting his violin down, his hands were shaking too much to properly grasp it anymore, Sherlock crossed to the windows, making sure that he was far enough in the shadow of the room that John wouldn't be able to see him if he looked back. Sherlock doubted he would look back, but John Watson had always been the slightest bit difficult for the world's only consulting detective to figure out.

His eyes tracked John's every footstep until his blogger was out of sight. Then and only then did Sherlock release the breath he had been holding, and remove his phone from his pocket to view the final text.

 _And the itsy-bisty spider_

 _Climbed up the spout again..._

* * *

Harry sucked in a ragged breath. Her lungs burned deep in her chest and her head throbbed, but she would finish her story.

"When we got the news I was 24, and Johnny was only 19..." She dabbed at her eyes with the tissue she held and gratefully accepted the glass of water that someone passed to her.

"I fell to pieces. I'd never gone to university. I was just working at a bakery and trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. Johnny had barely started pre-med, and he was so... calm. I know we were both adults, but I've never felt more like a little kid," she hiccupped and sobbed, "a kid whose parents really were _never_ coming back this time..." Harry's voice dissolved into a long cry of pain, and she felt Madeline's hand on her shoulder.

The counselor, Eva, waited until Harry's wails had dissolved into whimpers before she spoke. "When people talk about grief they often use the words 'closure' or 'get over it,' but that's not really an accurate or healthy portrayal of how most people experience grief. It's a chronic condition, not an acute one; that is to say that it doesn't have an end point."

"So we're just going to suffer forever?!" Patricia snapped, her wild curls flying as she glared at Eva.

"Greif is always something we are viewing through new eyes," the counselor replied, her voice soft and calm. "At one point in your life, you might feel at peace about the losses you've experienced, at another it might feel like it's happening all over again. Your best resource in coping with grief and loss is to understand that these fluctuations can happen, and that's okay. Everyone and every situation is different. It could be that your most intense period of mourning is right after the loss, or you might experience many intense cycles of mourning. Anniversaries of a specific event, and holidays are common triggers that might result in people re-examining the losses in their lives."

Patricia threw her hands up and let out a loud sigh of exasperation. "So we're screwed. Great."

"I don't believe that anyone is every truly screwed, as you may be implying," The therapist continued, leaning forward slightly in her chair as she spoke to Patricia and the larger group. "While the pain you may feel after a loss can be intense, it never has to define you, and it does not mean that you'll never be happy. People can feel a wide range of emotions, and often feel more than one at the same time. Some people find meaning or focus in grief and loss, a better appreciation of what they have, or a greater drive to pursue what they want. Some people feel they are honoring who and what they have lost by living the best lives that they can. Others may feel that they simply don't want to let pain be the only thing that defines them. Pain may be a continuous part of your lives, _and_ how you respond to it will shape your reality. "

Patricia crossed her arms, looked away, and grumbled quietly to herself

Harry, who's sniffling had mostly subsided wiped her nose and pondered for a moment. "I like how you said that." She mused. "I mean, I know my parents were sick too, like me, and that's why our lives were so chaotic." Another thoughtful silence. "I don't think they were bad people, even if I hate what they did sometimes. They probably felt as guilty and out of control as I sometimes felt." Tears welled in her eyes again. "I wouldn't want them to feel that way. I made my own decisions. I mean, I didn't have much choice about how I started out, but I could have made different decisions later. Johnny's always been there for me, and Clara was there for as long as she could stand it."

The counselor nodded thoughtfully, then frowned. "Perhaps I am misremembering, Harry, but I thought you had shared that it was you who had left her."

Harry's gaze shifted in the floor. "She didn't deserve to pick up after my shit forever. She was different, good at communication, like you. She always told me how much I was hurting her."

"You as a person?" The counselor pressed. "Do you mean you were violent?"

Harriet scowled. "You know bloody well what I meant! My addiction! My fucked up brain and the way I behaved! It took over everything! It is me and it's all I'll ever bloody be!"

Harry was almost sobbing now her fevered breathing filling the room. "Are you saying that you are your addiction?" the counselor asked after a long pause.

"Yes!" Harry wailed, reaching for more tissues. "I don't want to be, but that's who I fucking am. I'm a drunk."

"No matter what?" The counselors voice was still calm, and she seemed genuinely curious.

"No matter what," Harriet echoed dully.

The counselor 'hmmed' sympathetically. "If that belief is so strong, that you have nothing else to look forward to, nothing else that you could be, I'm not surprised that you relapsed."

Harry had spoken to the group, and apologized to them when she'd relapsed. It was part of the conditions of her continued treatment. Everyone had been very supportive, but it was still embarrassing to hear it being talked about so casually. She cringed and sank further into her chair.

"Nothing is more frightening than the unknown," the counselor continued, scanning the room as she spoke, speaking to all the patients once more. "There's a reason why they never want to show you the monster in horror movies. Nothing is worse than what your own brain will come up with, when left to its own devices. If being a drunk or an addict has taken over your life, as is so often the case when addiction persists, it can be hard to remember ever being someone different. For some people, especially if they started young, it can feel like they never were anything else, like they never had the chance to be. When you're seeking recovery it can feel like your left behind, and everyone else has already figured out who they are."

Eva's gaze flickered back to Harry, "That's another part of life that people tend to view as stagnant. It's even in the language we use. 'When I grow up...' But addiction isn't fixed and neither are our personalities. We grow and change all throughout our lives, and recovery is one of the biggest changes that we can make."

Harry rocked slowly in her chair, listening. She wanted to believe that was true, but...she wasn't sure. She wasn't sure about anything anymore...


	18. An Empty Space

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Chapter 17: An Empty Space

Five hours later, John was well on his way to Switzerland, and he was still fuming. He had never felt so stupid in his life. He had thought that _somehow_ Sherlock and he had managed to become... friends... but now...

 _"Do you kiss all the men that aren't your boyfriend?"_

He grimaced as Sherlock's words drifted through his head. He hadn't meant to! It had just...happened. John had thought Sherlock wasn't the type to get bent out of shape about something like that. He had thought... but he was wrong. Had this _all_ been part of the contest of wills that started this frie... arrangment?

John clenched his jaw shut and pushed his head back into the headrest of the seat. The scenery displayed in the large windows of the train was utterly lost on him. He was on his way to his sister, but his mind was trapped in 221 B Baker Street, trying to figure out why he felt so betrayed...

He shouldn't have kissed Sherlock, obviously. What _had_ he been thinking?! He'd just been checking Sherlock's temperature, whatever illness he had did the damndest things to him sometimes, and then...

It had been frighteningly easy to lean up and kiss him. Sherlock's uncertain expression was burned into his mind's eye. He'd look unsteady and honest in a way John had only glimpsed before.

He had seen Sherlock act, he knew the world's only consulting detective was convincing... Sherlock had certainly been calculating during every case and in their early weeks together as flatmates, but somewhere along the way the vitriol had seemed to go out of him. John thought he had been cautious. He thought he had figured Sherlock out...

 _"In the end, you'll be bitter and disillusioned like the rest of the world's idiots."_

Sherlock had made no secret about his objectives. What if John hadn't seen something more than a brilliant mind and a cold heart? What if he'd only seen the results of a carefully laid plan...Sherlock had written his sister... Sherlock had talked about old cases with him. When Sherlock deigned to listen they had even collaborated on cases. True, most of John's ideas had been wrong, but being Sherlock's sounding board had seemed to help him focus.

Where was he going to live now? 221 C was still an option but, if he was honest with himself John had chosen that location to stay close to Sherlock. His fingers curled into fists and shook with tension. Had he been played for a fool _all_ this time?

His mind flashed back through the times he had tended to Sherlock's case related injuries, and the easy, relaxed air that had seemed to settle around them during those times. He remembered Sherlock's breathy _"Thank you_ " the night John had forcibly put him to bed after he'd torn up the flat. He had wanted to believe that 'thank you'...

 _"In the end, you'll be bitter and disillusioned like the rest of the world's idiots."_

Disillusioned? Maybe. It was foolish to believe in something more when Sherlock had been so cold and clear, all hints of things John had thought he'd seen fading away in an instant. Bitter?...no. If anything he was embarrassed. He really had thought that the initial argument that started all this had faded into nothing as they built their partnership.

Had Sherlock sent someone to tempt or poison his sister? John's jaw clenched tight right along with his hands. Sherlock would certainly never hesitate to do something like that for a case...well...would he? As angry as he was, he had never once witnessed Sherlock lying without trying to close a case, and he was never cruel unless he was trying to solve a case...

A sudden chill ran down John's spine. Had Sherlock considered their arrangement to be a case, only instead of unraveling a puzzle he had been trying to convince another person, John, of a certain way of thinking? Sherlock convinced people of his rationale and evidence for a case all the time, he made it look easy, as though there was no other way of looking at things. Their little war of perspective had many of those same principles, it was simply a more complex and pervasive argument. Would Sherlock really have treated this like a case...?

 _"He's a good man, always has been. I just hope one day that he'll be a happy one."_

And that was the problem... John still believed that. After everything, he still believed that Sherlock had a heart, one he guarded so closely that few people ever managed to see it.

John sighed and leaned forward to place his hands over his face. His fingertips had just brushed his hairline when he flinched and shifted, reaching down to his side where he suddenly felt a small, sharp pain. The ex-army doctor's fingers quested over the fabric of his jumper for a moment before he found the offending object and plucked it free. He almost laughed when he saw what it was. Somehow a thorn from Mrs. Hudson's dormant rose bushes had snagged John on his way out, and remained stubbornly attached to him since the moment he left 221 B. A smile rested on his lips as he turned the small sticker over in his fingers.

"Every rose has it's thorns..." he mused quietly to himself, and knew he had his answer. Whatever Sherlock had felt, John had found an unexpected home in 221 B, and he wasn't giving it up without a fight.

He leaned back in his seat and squared his shoulders. First, though, he had to see his sister...

* * *

Harry turned a corner and came to a sudden stop when she saw one of the counselors, Eva sitting on the floor against the wall, curled into a ball, with her legs bent up and her arms wrapped around them. She stood silently for a moment, staring before creeping closer and crouching down beside Eva.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked, her hand half outstretched, as though she would place it on Eva's shoulder. If she wasn't in treatment she might have completed the gesture, but Edelweiss Recovery Center was, in general, a no touch facility, especially between staff and patients. It was meant as a protective policy, some bottom line boundaries to protect those who may not have yet found their voice to say things like, "I have PTSD" or "I just don't like being touched." It made sense, and Harry respected it, but at the moment she was more shocked to find Eva in such a state. Eva was one of the calmest, most soft spoken, most conscientious, and most put together counselors in the facility. Not that there was anything wrong with huddling on the floor if you needed to, Eva was just... it wasn't something she had ever pictured Eva doing.

Eva lifted her head from her knees and turned it to smile at Harry. "Yes, thank you." Her face was drawn and pinched. Harry was drawing breath to protest that Eva was _not_ fine, when the counselor continued.

"I had my gallbladder removed when I was twenty. You can live without your gallbladder just fine, and mine was full of stones, causing lots of pain, so it had to go. Of course, just because I can live without a gallbladder, it doesn't mean there aren't consequences."

"What consequences?" Harry asked, sitting on the floor beside Eva as her legs grew tired of crouching.

A change swept over Eva's face so quickly that Harry almost laughed. She'd long thought that Eva approached her counseling sessions like a teacher, and every time she was asked to explain something she adopted her teaching face, which was what she was doing now. She still looked like she was in pain, but she was focused on something else altogether.

Eva moved one hand slightly forward as if cupping something small. "The gallbladder is a small pouch that sits under the liver, collecting bile that it produces," Eva's other hand swept a large area above her cupped hand. "As your stomach needs more bile to digest, the pouch contracts, and pushes in the bile it needs." Eva squeezed her hand shut for a moment, then loosened it once more, looking again like she was cupping something small. "Sometimes, and for lots of different reasons, the gallbladder can produce stones. Some people are able to pass them, and some people never feel them."

Eva cringed a bit before adding, "I definitely felt mine. I don't know what it's like for other people, but it felt _exactly_ like I had something hard like a marble inside me and my flesh was pressing tight around it, hurting itself on the hard surface of the marble, but still unable to stop pressing in around it, like it was trying to squeeze it out."

Harry winced in sympathy, and Eva pressed on. "When they remove your gallbladder, the bile has nowhere to be stored, so it all drains into your stomach as soon as it's made. For most people, this causes acid reflux when you have too much bile, and intestinal cramps when you have too little. They're painful, but ultimately temporary. I'm not injured and my body still works more or less as it's intended too." Eva shrugged, wrapping her hands around her knees one more, and leaning her head back against the wall.

"So, that's what's happening now?" Harry asked. "You're in pain?"

"Hm," Eva agreed with a nod. "I know it's temporary and that makes it easier to ignore, even when it's intense."

"How often does this happen?" Harriet asked, brows furrowed in concern.

"Every day," Eva replied softly, turning her head back around to meet Harry's gaze once more. "Not all day every day, but pretty much every day. Some days are better than others."

"I'm sorry," Harry murmured, looking down at the floor. All this time, and she'd had no idea...

"Thank you," Eva replied softly, and Harry managed to look back up at her. She was smiling. "You don't need to feel sorry for me, though. Understanding what it is makes it easier to deal with. Most days it's actually not this bad. I just needed a bit of a rest."

"You don't seem that upset," Harry replied, confused.

Eva shrugged again. "There wouldn't' be much point. I mean, I was at first, but all I could do was listen to my body and learn what made it better, and what made it worse. Take what control I could, and accept the rest. I do probably push myself at work, because it's always so energetic here, but it's only really pushing myself on the bad days. I know I'm always talking to you all about the importance of self care, so when it was particularly bad today, I decided to have a little sit down. I'll rest a few more minutes, then I'll get back to work."

Harry didn't know quite what to say. Eva was in pain, but it hardly seemed to bother her... Or maybe it was the way she handled it. Her astonishment must have shown on her face because Eva leaned towards her and spoke again.

"Don't nominate me for sainthood anytime soon. At the time I was diagnosed I was so frustrated I threatened to beat my attending with my I.V. pole."

Harry's jaw fell open and she quickly lifted her hands to cover her mouth. "You didn't!"

"I did," Eva instead with a wry smile, "but I became better at managing things with time."

Harry pressed her hands harder to her mouth, but a few stray giggles managed to sneak out.

* * *

It was everything John could do to keep himself from running as he walked up the front steps of the Edelweiss Recovery Center. It was larger than he'd thought, much larger, but the layout still made things feel homey and secure. For the most part, the beauty of the place was lost on him, and that was probably a good thing. He'd spied the edge of the rose gardens in the cab and his stomach had lurched sickeningly. It was those very roses which had brought Harry here...

A thin, solemn faced young man with dark brown eyes and hair lifted his gaze to John's as he approached the reception desk. His lips twitched for a moment, but then he scanned John's face and opted not to smile. "How can I help you?" He asked softly, once John was in hearing range.

"I'm here to see my sister," John swallowed before he managed to finish, "...Harriet Watson."

The man who had greeted him, Fredrick if his name tag was to be believed, looked down at his computer for a moment, clicking and typing for a few moments, before his face darkened.

John grit his teeth and clenched his fists reflexively. He'd heard over the phone that his sister's condition was not good; it must have gotten worse in the hours it had taken him to get here.

Fredrick stood and met his gaze once more. "Right this way, Sir." His tone was still soft, and now John could detect a hint of sympathy in it. That sympathy made him angry. It wouldn't help him, and it wouldn't help his sister. He knew, intellectually, that it was kindly meant, but it felt suffocating. He wished Sherlock were here to deduce this too-well-put together orderly within an inch of his life.

The thought made John come to a dead stop. He didn't even realize he'd stopped moving until the orderly turned and looked back at him asking, "Sir? Are you coming?"

The ex-army doctor gave himself a mental shake and nodded. "Yes, sorry." He made his feet follow Frederick while his mind whirled with thoughts of the world's only consulting detective. Mycroft's words for their first...meeting flashed through his mind.

" _You're very loyal, very quickly."_

John didn't think he was foolishly loyal, he just hadn't seen the humor or convenience in being kidnapped and threatened. Still, Mycroft was right. He'd become...attached to Sherlock in ways it was almost uncomfortable to consider. He had determined not three hours ago to put Sherlock out of his mind for now, and here he was ignoring any sense of boundaries or proprieties. Typical.

John had to fight back the edges of a smile for a moment, because by God if a crime scene was no place to giggle a detox ward was beyond the pale. The thought only made the urge stronger and John bit the inside of his cheek to try to restore order. If Sherlock's influence on him was this pervasive...he might just have a problem...or something...

The ex-army doctor instantly sobered when his guide paused outside a patients door, and held it open for him. John nodded his thanks and stepped inside.

"She's stable," the orderly began to murmur, but his words were lost on John as he approached the bed. The woman lying on it was so thin and gray his eyes drifted to her chest to assure himself it was still moving with each breath.

He reached for the chart at the foot of the bed first, to give himself some more time, a moment to collect himself, though he knew that there was little he could really do to put a barrier between himself and this present disaster. It had happened, and now he was going to have to deal with it.

John scanned blood work, MRI's, and dozens of other tests. She'd apparently been found collapsed and unresponsive in one of the rest rooms. It was a good thing the staff set a time limit to check on someone or... John moved his eyes over the page again, not really seeing the words anymore.

At length he finally forced himself to lower the chart and _look_ at the prone women before him. The chart immediately slipped from his grasp, clattering loudly on the floor, and his jaw fell open slightly with shock and horror.

Frederick knelt to collect the chart with practiced calm, and began to speak once more. "She's been classified as comatose for the moment, but we are still well within the window for a full recovery, and her brain waves are very promising."

John's mouth worked open and closed, trying to force the words out past his disbelief. Beside him, Frederick babbled on.

"You can hold her hand if you want, talk to her. Studies have shown that can be very helpful to coma patients. I can arrange for her doctor to come by and review her case with you. Also, you should understand-"

"No," John cut the orderly off, finally finding his voice.

The oblivious orderly placed a hand gently on John's shoulder and murmured, "I know this is a difficult time for y-"

"This woman is _not_ my sister!" John spat, wrenching away from Frederick. " _Where_ is Harry?!"

Frederick folded his hands patiently in front of him and continued to drone on, as if speaking to a child. "I understand this is difficult to accept, but-" This time Frederick cut himself off as John stepped menacingly into his personal space.

"I am an ex-army doctor, a captain, invalided home from her Majesty's service after I was shot, I am not out of my depth when confronted with difficult or tragic situations," as he spoke, John continued to advance on the other man until he had him literally backed into the far corner of the room. He pointed emphatically at the patient behind them. "She is not my sister, but my sister is here, somewhere, and you are going to help me find her. Understood?"

John's last word wasn't so much a question as it was an order. Fredrick gave a little squeak before nodding and shuffling quickly out the door. John followed, eyes narrowed. He knew that Frederick may just be buying time until he could call security, but John could charm almost as well as he could menace, and at the moment he was prepared to employ any tactic at his disposal to locate his suddenly missing sister.

They quickly returned to the front desk, and Frederick was just reaching for the phone when John heard a familiar voice off to his left.

"Johnny?"

The ex-army doctor whirled around a stunned, overjoyed, and relieved smile breaking over his face as he rushed to meet his sister. "Harry!"

Harry's answering smile was slightly bewildered, but equally joyful as she met her brother in a fierce hug. She yelped softly when John actually picked her up and spun her in circles.

"Oh my God, Harry, I'm _so_ glad you're okay," John murmured, his voice thick with emotion and his eyes threatening tears.

Harry immediately softened, clinging to her brother more tightly. "Of course I'm oaky," she replied, gently rubbing his back when he finally set her feet on the ground once more. She didn't pry, just hummed softly, rocking them both back and forth gently. Whatever the story behind John's unexpected visit, she knew she would hear it once he had his voice back.

At length John finally managed to pull back enough to place a few embarrassing kisses on her forehead. "Johnny!" She protested, squirming and giggling in his arms. "Stop that. Really, what brought you here in such a panic?"

John's expression hardened menacingly, and his gaze slowly turned to take in Frederick, who finally looked properly chagrined. "They told me you had relapsed, that you were in a coma." John thrust an accusatory finger at Frederick, " _He_ brought me to some poor girls room, and tried to tell me she was you." The ex-army doctors voice was low and gravely with an unspoken threat.

Eva, who had been walking beside Harry and who had gone mostly unnoticed by John until now, stepped forward with a deep frown. "Is that so, Frederick?" He voice, like John's was low and even, but something in the undercurrent of her turn caused Frederick to jump.

"S-she's l-listed as the patient recovering in r-room 114," Frederick stuttered, gesturing to the computer.

"Let me see," Eva insisted, her frown deepening as she crossed around behind the desk, and bent to look at the screen.

"Johnny, I'm so sorry," Harry murmured, realizing how desperate her brother must have been to see her.

He pulled her closer and pressed another kiss to her temple. "It's not your fault, harry. I'm just glad you're okay." John did manage to hold her at arm's length, for just a moment, before declaring, "You look great!" and pulling her back to his chest.

Harry smiled and went willingly back into John's arms, knowing the contact would help reassure her brother that she was indeed, just fine. "Thank you. I've started participating in some of the group hikes. I didn't realize how out of shape I'd gotten."

"You won't stay that way for long with the mountains in the area," John replied, still glowering at Eva and Frederick as they bent over the computer.

"I can't believe there was such a big mix-up," Harry murmured, following John's gaze.

John's grip on her tightened and his face darkened.

"Stop that," Harry insisted.

John turned his head to look at her, his mouth half open in protest, but she pressed her fingers against his lips to shut them. "The people here _really_ care, Johnny, and even though it's a large recovery center they're organized. This isn't like them. I can't wrap my head around it."

John's glower returned. "And being here for almost nine months makes you an expert does it?"

Harry stiffened and returned his menacing look. "Better than someone who's only been here five minutes, I'd say. You're not Sherlock, Johnny."

The ex-army doctor frowned and looked away, starting to feel uneasy. Nothing about this situation was right, and he was starting to think...

"Mr. Watson," Eva's gentle voice broke in, and John looked up to see the counselor stepping out from behind the front desk. "I am terribly sorry for this confusion. I don't know why yet, but it appears that your sister's name was switched with another patient's in our electronic medical records. Those were the only things that were switched." Eva bit her lip and shook her head. "I've never seen an error like this before. I'll have our I.T. department look into it right away."

Harry's brow furrowed. "That's an odd thing to go wrong, if just the names were switched, especially just as that poor woman relapsed and her family had to be called."

Eva nodded. "Terrible timing, I'm so sorry. We have one of the most up-to date electronic medical records in the world. It has its own bugs like everything else, but this is unprecedented."

A sick, cold feeling settled in John's stomach alongside a growing sense of unease. It was almost too convenient... Sherlock had been working a case he wouldn't tell him about, just as a system it would probably take a genius to foul up goes wrong in just the right way to separate them...

"Excuse me a moment," John murmured, separating from his sister, and taking a step back as he pulled out his phone. He dialed Sherlock's number and pressed the phone to his ear, listening to it ring.

Sherlock was undoubtedly brilliant, but John couldn't make himself suspect him. That moment of doubt on the train had settled it for him. If Sherlock wanted John gone he could've seized dozens of opportunities before this one. While their own private war of perspective was still technically going on, it hadn't seemed that important recently. There was something else going on...

 _"Speak."_

John growled softly at Sherlock's ridiculous voicemail message, hung up, and rang him again. "Pick up the phone, damnit!" he muttered.

"Johnny?" Harry asked, stepping a bit closer with a worried expression on her face.

John held up one finger to silence her while he listened, suddenly desperate to hear Sherlock answer him, but the phone just rang, and rang, and rang...


	19. Closing the Net

**A big thank you to all those who have left reviews, favorited, and/or followed this story! Your support means a lot to me.**

 **Only one chapter left after this one! I hope you enjoy this next installment.**

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Chapter 18:Closing the Net

Sherlock's fingers curled into fists as he fought the urge to burrow into his coat. He knew the chill saturating his bones had little to do with the bitter winter winds of London, still he was at least gratified that his shivering wouldn't look out of place. Standing out was the last thing he needed right now.

The world's only consulting detective counted the streets he passed in his mind, waiting for the right turn off to the rendezvous point. He'd texted Wiggins with cryptic instructions only they would understand. It had been...difficult to ask him to put himself in harm's way, even though that had always been part of the arrangement.

He hadn't waited for a reply, chucking his phone in a sewer grate soon after his furtive exit from 221 B. Still, he knew Wiggins would be there... He really didn't deserve such loyalty, but he was grateful for it all the same.

It was a struggle to gain ground on the dogs behind him without appearing to run. They were four streets back now, and they were gaining. This spider he was after could be deathly subtle, but everything he did seemed to have an air of grandeur, and arrogance. Drama queen.

He passed the second hand bookstore flanked by the thrift shop and slipped seamlessly into the ally between the two. His lips quirked in a ghost of a smile. Wiggins was waiting. He had been leaning against the wall with a cigarette in his mouth, looking bored, but when Sherlock came into view he came to life, stamping out the cigarette and holding out his hands.

Sherlock shucked his coat off and wrapped it around Wiggins shoulders. "The dogs will be by in two minutes."

Wiggins nodded, pulling on the Belstaff with a look of intense determination.

Sherlock reached up, gripping the fire escape firmly in both hands, then paused, watching Wiggins start to lie down just underneath said fire escape. This would, quite effectively, cut off his sent trail. Wiggins had just knelt down, when he glanced up, seeing Sherlock still there. "Hurry!" He hissed, making shooing motions with his hands.

Sherlock nodded, pulling himself up onto the fire escape. He paused again on the first level and whispered, "Be careful..."

Wiggins glance up, looking puzzled for a moment, then flashed Sherlock a grin. "Will do, you too, mate."

Sherlock nodded one more before dashing up the metal steps to the building's roof. He threw himself onto the flat surface moments before the dogs rounded the corner into the alley. Sherlock hunkered down and listened to them make their way to Wiggins, who had curled up on the ground facing away from them.

A gruff voice sounded, "Found him."

The sounds of a struggle filtered up from the alleyway and Sherlock could hear Wiggins voice, "Lay off me! I ain't done nothing this time!" More sounds of a struggle and snarling dogs. There was the sound of someone being dragged a short ways then another voice broke in.

"Wait!"

The alley grew silent for a long moment, then there was the sound of fabric being tossed about.

"Where did you get this?" the second voice growled.

"I just found it!" Wiggins insisted shrilly. "The things people throw out these days will break your 'art. This here is a perfectly serviceable coat. Jus' a waste of money to let it sit around being useless!"

More shuffling and the sound of hushed voices reached Sherlock's ears, then a muffled curse. "Spread out, we know it's not far now."

Four sets of footfalls followed, two human, two canine. Wiggins spat and hissed, "Wankers!" After the men who'd assaulted him. They'd taken the coat with them, as Sherlock suspected they might.

Sherlock crept to the edge of the roof and scanned for any signs of his pursuers. He watched them disappear into the streets of London. One man and dog went east, the other south. Sherlock smirked and made his was gingerly down the west side of the building, which was thankfully shadowed in another alley. He glanced around as he climbed, making sure he was unobserved.

It would have seemed alarmingly easy to John. Sherlock had discussed with the good doctor once how much escapes the notice of everyday people who are trained, almost by default, not to notice anything outside themselves in the name of polite society, a trait not helped by the increased focus of tablets, cell phones, and social media. Sherlock recognized he also focused heavily on his cell phone at times, but at least he did something _productive_ with that time: he solved cases.

Sherlock crouched when he reached the ground, and pulled two tennis balls from his pockets. He carefully removed the plug from one and set it rolling down the alley, towards the street. Before he'd left Baker Street he'd managed to fill each ball with urine from a bitch in heat. Very little could deter well trained scenting dogs for long, except for this.

Glancing around once more, Sherlock removed the seal from the second ball and set it rolling in the opposite direction. Satisfied that his tracks were covered as well as they could be covered, Sherlock lifted the manhole cover from the sewer entrance and slipped underground, pausing only to lift the cover back in place as he descended.

Every city had its layers, especially the old ones. While people were concerned with aesthetic appeal on the surface, underneath it was all about practicality. When structures weren't needed and leaving them be caused no structural concerns, they were abandoned. When construction from one project met another, previously abandoned section, the older section was subsumed and anything that could be re-used, such as tunnels, supports, and even building material, often was. The result was an intricate web of underground passageways that left most cities, London included, as accessible from underground as above ground, sometimes even more so.

Once he was safely descended and nestled in a little alcove, Sherlock pulled out his new phone. He had activated it just today, and only for one purpose. Tapping impatiently on the screen, Sherlock smiled when his tracking system came to life. Well, it wasn't so much his as 'borrowed' from Mycroft, but that was semantics.

In his earlier instructions to Wiggins he'd alerted the man to look for a small tracking device in the pockets of the Belstaff, and to attach said tracking device to anyone who may accost him once Sherlock had left. It was likely that Wiggins had slipped the device along the inside of one of the dogs collars, at least that's what Sherlock hoped he'd done, the dogs were much more likely to lead Sherlock to the spider he was after. The game was well, and truly afoot now.

* * *

John stared hard at the sun catcher display in the train station gift shop and tried to convince himself that he wasn't being followed. He didn't succeed very well. Not only had he actually been followed numerous times while working with Sherlock, but everything about this current situation had him doubly on edge.

Still, there was nothing he could really do but keep his wits about him and wait for the train to bring him back to England. John wished he'd been able to book a flight, but, being so close to Christmas everything was taken. If he was honest with himself he'd been lucky to get the train ticket, and he should be grateful...

John leaned closer to the sun catchers, pretending to examine them while he shifted them in his hands. That dark haired man had been behind him for a very long time, hadn't he? The good doctor let the trinket slip from his fingers and sighed. One thing at a time. There really was very little he could do if he was being followed other than to stay alert. As if the adrenaline flowing through his veins would let him do anything else. Shoving his hands in his pockets, John made his way back to the train. With travel so congested, the last thing he wanted to do was miss it's departure.

The ex-army doctor made his way to his seat and settled in, staring at the reflections of the passengers around him in the mirror while trying to look absorbed in the scenery. At least the dark aired man was gone, if he was ever really a threat to begin with.

John wished he could just teleport to England. As desperate as he had been to come here for his ailing sister, he was even more anxious to get back to Sherlock. God only knew what kind of mess he'd gotten himself into this time.

The doors of the train had just shut when John felt his phone buzz. Plucking it from his pocket, he read the waiting text. It was from Mrs. Hudson? John didn't think she bothered with texting. She was a very practical woman. She still had a flip phone for goodness sake. Still, there it was.

 _Hello dear, I do hope your sister is in good spirits._

John smiled at the sentiment. As much as she protested that she was "not a housekeeper" Mrs. Hudson seemed to make a point of trying to take care of Sherlock and himself. It was little wonder that Sherlock cared about her, despite all his protests. One did not throw a burglar out a two story window , after beating them senseless, for someone who was not important.

The phone buzzed in his hand as the train began to lurch forwards.

 _Oh, and I've set up some interviews for replacement flatmates for you today at 6:00pm._

Jon straightened in his seat. What the hell was she on about?! Replacement flatmates... The phone buzzed again.

 _Please come if convenient._

John's mouth had barely dropped open before yet another text appeared.

 _If inconvenient come anyway._

John looked up, scanned the train, but nothing seemed to be out of place. This had to be Sherlock! Right? He glanced down as another text came through, not from Mrs. Hudson this time, but from...an airline?

 _This is a confirmation of your flight with Lufthansa from Berne to London departing at 15:00._

The text continued on with other flight details, but John was too stunned to absorb them. Today. He had, somehow, gotten a flight leaving today, in two hours.

Two hours...

With a jolt John realized his dilemma; the train had just begun to leave the station. If he had any chance at all of making this flight he needed to have gotten off before the train had pulled away. He stood, almost frantic, peering out the window in time to see the last of the station disappear along the side of his window. He felt his stomach clench in protest.

No!

John glanced around the train, feeling the walls start to close in on him. He forced himself to take a breath. He was starting to get strange looks from his fellow passengers. There was nothing for it. He would have to take the train... unless...

John's gaze skimmed along the emergency brake and his conscience flooded his mind with guilt. It was more than a bit 'not good', and he would terribly inconvenience the travelers around him, assuming he could even make it out of the train station without being arrested...

The good doctor swallowed, licked his lips, and glanced down at his phone.

 _If inconvenient, come anyway._

"Damn," John cursed under his breath, reached up, and pulled hard on the emergency brake before he could give himself too much time to think about what he was doing. The train lurched, sending baggage and people tumbling. It didn't look like there was any injuries though, it would have been worse if the train had made it up to full speed.

No going back now. John's expression hardened with determination, and he turned towards the exit. He intimidated and strong-armed his way to the door, wrenching it open, and tumbling out into the snow. There were several harsh glares and calls for him to stop, but John made himself deaf to them. He'd committed now, and if he didn't get away in time it might be too late...

John lumbered through the snow, impeded by the slope just beside the train tracks. A portly, red-faced man had also leapt from the train and was yelling after the ex-army doctor in what John suspected was Dutch. His conscience nagged at him, but he pushed it back, forcing his legs forward through the snow and cold. The man was following him now, John could hear the footsteps behind him, but the ex-army doctor had a good lead.

John reached for the ledge of the train station platform and heaved, trying to scramble up and over the ledge. People lingered nearby, hesitant expressions plastered over their faces, uncertain whether they should interfere or if it was safer to let the mad British man pass.

The concussive roar of a blast ripped the air just as John rolled up and onto the platform. All around him people fell to their knees while he rolled into a crouch and reached for a gun that wasn't there. John's eyes widened and his throat constricted as he saw a tumbling wave of snow bury tracks 300 yards from the stopped train. If he hadn't pulled the emergency brake...

There was a moment of silence, then everyone was rushing past him, no longer concerned with one rouge passenger when the others were yet to be accounted for. John jerked with the suppressed impulse to join them. He wanted to, he was a doctor...but the avalanche hadn't actually hit the train, thanks to its early stop...and he still had to get to Sherlock.

Pivoting, mid-crouch, John launched himself at the exit, working against the flow of people and praying he could find a cab that would get him to the airport on time.

The people outside the station where in chaos, just as those within. Some ran away, some ran towards the station, most stood stock still and stared up at the mountain that had unleashed its vengeance like statues.

John ran up to the first cabbie he saw, "Can you take me to the airport?!" he asked, half breathless from exercise and adrenaline.

The cabbie shook his head and gestured wildly at the mountain, "Did you see? Is the train hit?"

"No, the train is fine, it stopped just before the snow hit. Listen, I need to get to the airport. Will you take me?"

The cabbie shook his head and locked up his car. "People will need help," he insisted, and started trotting off towards the station. John growled in irritation, but pressed on.

The next cabbie he approached shook his head, got in his car, and pulled away. The one after that was just accepting another fare, and the one after that point blank refused to move, because he was waiting to pick up his wife who should be on the next train, when it could finally get through. The ex-army doctor ran a hand through his hair and spun around, eyes searching desperately for another cabbie.

He was just about to start cursing again when he spied a lone black Bentley with the a heavily muscled driver in an expensive suit standing just to one side of it. A chill of recognition ran through him, and he hoped he wasn't wrong. He knew this could just as easily be a trap, but he had to try.

John trotted up to the imposing driver and asked, "Will you take me to the Berne airport, please? I need to catch a flight."

A small, slow smirk curled on the driver's lips as he pulled open the back door for John to get in. "Took you long enough to notice," he murmured and John bundled in while he closed the door. John buckled himself in and tried to steady his breathing. This was just like any other case. He was diving headlong into a dangerous and complex situation he barely understood, only this time he was doing it without Sherlock...

* * *

Sherlock ducked under a low hanging ceiling and turned a corner. When he had first entered the sewers he had intended to remain there only as long as was needed to approach the hiding place of the spider which he hoped his tracking devices would lead him to. He never expected that same lair would be underground as well, but he probably should have. Hadn't he been thinking, just as he climbed into said tunnels that so much space was left unused, and that one could easily get almost anywhere in London from said subterranean spaces, if only one knew how?

The world's only consulting detective shook his head and bit back a curse. He should've realized when he saw the article about the excavation for the sky scrapers and the artifacts they had found there... Hell, Mr. Dwight was probably involved in shipping the damned things into the country so they could be planted at the site of the soon-to-be skyscrapers, thus "legitimately" found and sold.

The location where the tracking devices had stopped was not quite at the dig site for the skyscrapers, but it was close enough to have easy access, and far enough away not to be found. Hiding in plain sight always was the best policy.

Sherlock sighed, glanced around him for a moment, then looked back at his new phone. He should be getting close now. If his memory served him well, which it often did, there should be an offshoot tunnel nearby that had been used for ventilation...

Sherlock paused when a breeze ruffled his curls, and looked up. It was a shaft, really, judging by the size of the grate covering it. It would be a scramble even to get into it, and it would be a tight fit, but it should do. Sherlock slipped his phone into the inside his trouser pocket, and reached up to remove the grate. It came away with a screech that was louder than Sherlock would have liked, but he wasn't overly concerned. The space underneath London creaked, groaned, and wailed more than an old farmhouse. Too many echoes from the trains, sewers, and the life taking place in the streets and buildings above.

He turned the grate over in his hands for a moment before chucking it into the space behind him. There was no way to easily cover the shaft with the grate once he was inside, and many things had been left down here unattended for ages, a missing grate would hardly be worth remarking upon.

Lifting his arms again, the world's only consulting detective scrambled up the uneven brick surface of the wall and wedged himself into to ventilation shaft. Once inside in crawled forward, bracing himself with his forearms and toes. A few minutes later, he heard voices, and turned in their direction. At last he came to another grate, this one, thankfully still in place, and peered beyond it.

A slim man in an expensive suit stood there with his back to Sherlock while his dogs tussled on the floor beside him. His hair was neatly slicked back, and he almost looked like... then he turned and Sherlock's eyes widened dramatically.

No.

No!

 _How_ had he missed this?!

Before him stood a smug, slick version of James Moriarty... _Damn!_ He had been underfoot all this time!

Before he had properly gathered his thoughts, Sherlock was reaching for his phone and texting Mycroft. He hadn't tried to willingly contact his brother in years, but right now, he was the only one who might be able to help John. Given recent events, his sister's 'coma' was far too convenient to be anything other than a trap.

Sherlock wanted to go himself, and was unsettled by the knowledge that he would've gone if there was any chance he might reach John in time, despite what it might cost him...

His hands were shaking as he slid the phone back into his pocket. Facing the grate once more, Sherlock tracked Moriarty's movements while his mind raced. This very _dangerous_ man had gotten close to John because of the ex-army doctor's connection with Sherlock.

The world's only consulting detective swallowed hard against the unfamiliar emotion of guilt. He was afraid for John. For the first time in a very long time he was afraid for someone else. How had he let this happen? Irrelevant, that would not bring him to a solution; it would not help keep John safe.

As he had done many times before, Sherlock pushed all his distractions to the background and focused on gathering data. Solving this, _ending_ this was the best thing he could do for John.

Moriarty paced the room idly, running his hands along the objects in it. Most people would say he looked calm, but most people were idiots.

"Do you want us to take the dogs out again?" a gruff voice sounded, too far in away from the grate for Sherlock to see who it was.

Moriarty shook his head. "No point." His voice was soft and calm in all the wrong ways. "He'll have gone to ground by now in a way we can't track."

A deep, sultry voice spoke next. "We could try to flush him out."

Moriarty's jaw set. "We were a bit too tidy for that. I'd hoped to have _all_ the loose ends tied up by now," he paused and eyes his companions pointedly. "Still it will only be a matter of days, maybe less. He'll be dead after that even without our help."

An unpleasant prickle ran up Sherlock's spine. He'd been so _foolish_ , hunting all over London for a man who was forever underfoot, and he'd inadvertently given him every possible advantage through John...

There was movement now, soft footsteps on the stone until a trim, dark haired woman with an aura of elegance and authority strode into his field of vision. Sherlock squinted in the dim light, fighting the violent urge to curse his own stupidity when she lifted her hand to adjust her blouse and the thin platinum band on her left hand flashed brightly with the movement. "Double the security until then?" She asked.

Moriarty nodded and waved her away.

The girl, the woman, _she_ had followed him around like a bane as well all these long months... When he first saw her, she had been plain enough to hide in the background, unnoticed, but then again she had wanted it that way.

Except... _why_ did she keep that stupid ring? It was unremarkable enough to be looked over at a casual meeting, but it was still something that made her identifiable-a bad thing in her line of work, unless it was some badge of loyalty, as Sherlock had first thought... Sherlock hadn't really seen any of Moriarty's other lackeys directly, so it was impossible to tell if they also bore thin, shining rings.

Irrelevant. The world's only consulting detective hardly needed rings to tell him who was loyal and who wasn't. Every group had some dissenters, a fact he might be able to turn to his advantage. One set of footsteps retreated into the distance, while Moriarty remained, silently petting one of the two dogs that had come to stand at his side.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he watched, mentally reviewing the labyrinth all around him. Moriarty wasn't alone, yet, and Sherlock knew little of the person with him, other than that they were male, likely physically strong, and also likely to be a trusted second in command. Still, he had the advantage of surprise for the moment and he wanted to use it wisely. Moriarty was right, Sherlock didn't have long to live. It might be days or hours now, Sherlock had pushed that data out of his mind the instant he had gone to ground. Still, it would be enough. He would make sure it was enough. Neither himself nor Moriarty would walk away from this particular game alive. All he needed was the right opening...


	20. Worth the Risk

**Greetings! We've made it to the end of the story! I know my thanks at the beginning of every chapter can be redundant, but it is really important to me because your support and encouragement keep me writing. I love knowing that I have an audience out there, and what they think of my work. So, once again, thank you to everyone who has left reviews, favorited, and/or followed this story! I sincerely hope you've enjoyed it, and will stick around to see more from me.**

 **Trigger warning!: This charter contains semi-graphic descriptions of injuries, dean bodies, and body parts. Please be safe if these might be triggers for you.**

* * *

Chapter 19: Worth the Risk

John was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he barely remembered to pay the cabbie that had brought him from Heathrow airport to 221 B. He would have chided himself for picking up Sherlock's bad habits if he wasn't so desperate to lay eyes on the insufferable git, and make sure he was the fare money at the cabbie, John turned and stormed up the steps to 221 B.

John leapt up the steps, and rushed into the flat. For a moment, relief flooded his system, because the door was open. "Sherlock?" he cried out, scanning the living room, kitchen , and bathroom, before bursting unceremoniously into Sherlock's bedroom. They were all devoid of the world's only consulting detective.

Cursing loudly, John flew up the stairs to his bedroom. Everything was exactly as he'd left it. There was no sign, no clue, no indication the Sherlock had left in a hurry or during a struggle…there was nothing. Trying to ignore the growing sense of unease in his gut, John descended the stairs more slowly, trying to see and observe everything about him, just in case Sherlock had left something, anything behind that would let John know where he'd gone.

The kitchen table held some kind of experiment cooking under heat lamps, the sitting room contained the usual client letters stuck to the mantle with a sturdy knife, as well as Sherlock's violin, resting on the desk by the windows. John crept into Sherlock's room once more, scanning every item meticulously. Sherlock's sheets were rumpled, clothes were strewn about the room, along with an assortment of random objects, and artifacts that would look completely out of place in any other flat in London, but were just par for the course when one lived with Sherlock Holmes.

John's chest tightened and he called out again. "Sherlock?" He wouldn't be at all surprised if there was some secret passage or room that his wayward flatmate had failed to inform him off. John waited, counting the seconds…nothing. He sighed and slumped against the doorframe of Sherlock's bedroom, running a hand over his face. _What was he going to do_?

"John?"

The ex-army doctor spun rapidly to face Mrs. Hudson. He knew it had been her, he'd recognized her voice, but he still had to bite back disappointment that Sherlock wasn't with her. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson."

His landlady smiled warmly and stepped into the flat, reaching out to place a hand on John's arm. "Sherlock told me about your sister. How is she doing?" Mrs. Hudson's eyebrows furrowed in concern as she spoke.

John blinked and shook his head, having trouble focusing on her words. "Oh, she's…better. She bounced back fairly quickly." John didn't want to go into details right now, that he suspected Harry's "coma" was a ploy to get him away from Sherlock during a crucial time in whatever case he had been working on all these months. That knowledge could only endanger Mrs. Hudson, as well as slow him down.

"That's wonderful news, John!" Mrs. Hudson gushed, squeezing his arm. "I hoped it would turn out like that."

John made himself smile and nod. "Thank you for thinking of me." He paused a moment and licked his lips before speaking again, trying not to sound as anxious as he was. Thankfully being a solider, as well as Sherlock's…flatmate had more than prepared him to keep a cool head under pressure. "Have you seen Sherlock?"

"Oh, no, dear, not since two days ago," Mrs. Hudson replied, looking thoughtful. "He left in quite a hurry. I thought he had gone to join you, actually."

John shook his head. "No, he's right in the middle of an important case, actually, too delicate to leave right now."

Mrs. Hudson smiled fondly. "If you say so, dear."

John lacked the time and the inclination to try to interpret if Mrs. Hudson was trying to insinuate anything. This was a dead end, time to move on. "I have to get going," John began, "I need to meet Greg at the yard."

Mrs. Hudson's smile widened. "Of course, dear. Do you think the case will be wrapped up in time for tea?"

John smiled despite himself. "I don't know. We'll do our best, but don't wait for us." He waved as he turned to go, rushing down the steps as quickly as he had come.

* * *

"John, the Yard is swamped right now. I don't know what happened, but our tip line has been ringing off the hook. I don't have time for Sherlock and his games."

"This isn't a game!" John insisted, glowering at the Detective Inspector. Greg Lestrade sat at his desk, typing away at his reports, only occasionally glancing at John. The ex-army doctor, meanwhile stood over Greg's computer, trying to convince him of the urgency of the situation. "Mrs. Hudson hasn't seen him for two days! He isn't answering his phone or any of the texts I've sent him. Something is off about this whole, bloody thing."

"You said it yourself," Greg replied, not even bothering to look up this time. "He's on a case. You know what he's like when he's on a case."

"This is different!" John's voice boomed out into the office, the loud, clear voice of a Captain issuing orders. Greg, as well as several officers outside his office, finally looked up. "I've told you about Harry, and the train. Don't you see that was a set up?"

Greg sighed and ran a hand over his face before looking back a John. "I understand your concern, I really do, but I'm not sending out the cavalry for Sherlock with no proof that he's in actual trouble. One more false alarm like that, and I will be out of a job."

John's jaw set in a hard line. "Greg, we need to find him, now."

Greg rolled his eyes and began typing furiously once more. John drew a measured breath, ready to start actually yelling if he had to, when Greg held up a hand to stop him. "I'm looking up his tracking device," Greg explained.

John blinked. "Tracking device?"

Greg nodded. "Mycroft had one implanted during one of Sherlock's overdoses, just under the skin, like you do with pets."

John might have been irritated by the Holmes brothers' methods of showing affection if he wasn't so relieved at the prospect of finally knowing where Sherlock was.

"There," Greg murmured, pointing at the screen. "The idiot is mucking around near that excavation site for the new skyscrapers, the one where they found those artifacts being put up for auction." Greg turned his screen around so that John could see.

John leaned forwards, noted the location, and whirled around, determined to make it there in record time.

"Call me if I'm actually needed," Greg called after him.

"You're needed," John insisted, even though he knew Greg wouldn't follow. That made it all the more imperative that he find his way back to Sherlock. Whatever he was facing, John wouldn't let him face it alone.

* * *

Sherlock was nestled in the same vent shaft he'd been in for hours. His legs had long ago gone numb from the cramped quarters, but he refused to move. As far as he had deduced, Moriarty was only ever directly in contact with one or two trusted others, one of whom being the woman he'd seen earlier. The other, a gruff sounding man, had never yet come far enough into the room for Sherlock to get a look at him; it seemed he was stationed at the entrance way to the small enclosure where Moriarty had secluded himself. The woman had not returned, and Sherlock assumed that the remaining man was the highest ranking lackey.

Moriarty had not been idle. He had texted continuously, occasionally speaking with the other man in the room. Their conversations were brief and vague, but Sherlock had been able to surmise they were discussing the skyscraper excavation project and the planting of stolen artifacts so they could be 'found' and sold at auction. This did not appear to be Moriarty's plan directly, rather he had used his resources to assist another. Sherlock wasn't sure if this temporary base of operations predated that arrangement, or if Moriarty's client even knew about it. Most likely the whole of London's underground passageways were a base of operations, with the specific hideaway changing periodically.

Sherlock had known he was hunting a nemesis, but he had never suspected he would come across a consulting criminal, for that is exactly what Moriarty seemed to be. He appeared to cooperate with others, but was never directly involved in the crimes. That made him all but invisible to the authorities. Sherlock was beginning to suspect that Moriarty was all but invisible to the criminal world as well. The only people he seemed to be in communication with were the woman, and the man who remained on guard. If he operated through them and them through others it would create a very effective smoke screen.

Moriarty's phone buzzed and he glanced down at it. "We have a visitor," he observed dryly, and all of Sherlock's muscles went tense. It couldn't be him they were aware of. If he had set off a trip wire they would have scouted him out by now… unless Moriarty was trying to toy with him. He had seemed to take great pleasure in Sherlock's imminent demise.

"I'll attend to it," the other man said, his feet already shifting on the stones underneath him.

Moriarty tapped through a few screens on his phone before his eyebrows twitched and he held up a hand to stop the other man. "Wait, this deserves my personal attention."

The retreating footsteps stopped, and the other man's voice came again. "Sir?"

Moriarty's expression deepened into an ominous scowl. "It seems our package was not correctly delivered into neutral snow."

A moment of heavy silence stretched out before the other man replied, "I apologize, my men reported he had gotten on the train. I will take care of them."

Moriarty nodded as he placed his phone in his jacket pocket, and strode out of the room.

Sherlock wriggled desperately to free himself from the ventilation shat. …Neutral snow... train… He didn't have enough evidence to conclusively know it was John, but now that the suspicion was in his mind it rattled around inciting something close to panic. John could not be here, not now, it was too dangerous.

Forcing his numbed limbs to bear his weight Sherlock shuffled off down the passageway in front of him, focusing on the different pathways around them and how he could best keep up with Moriarty.

* * *

"I can't believe I'm doing this," John muttered to himself. The metal pipes of the scaffolding were cold in his hands as he scrambled down them, looking for some sign of Sherlock. There had been security at the dig site, but it had been frighteningly easy to avoid them.

His hands slipped and he tightened his grip, cursing when he felt the metal bite into his skin.

"John!"

"James?" John asked, snapping his head around towards the voice, peering down to see James's head peeking out a few levels down.

"What are you doing here?" they both asked at once, then chuckled.

"I'm here helping the work crew verify some human remains they think they found alongside the artifacts." James replied. "Come down off of there. There's a ledge here, I can help you."

"Yeah, that would probably be best, wouldn't it?" John asked with a wry smile. "Give me a minute; I'm not as young as I used to be."

James smiled and lifted his arms, reaching out to John as he made his way down. "Be careful, it's a long way down."

* * *

For once in his life Sherlock didn't think, he reacted. He was careful to move silently over the stone floor separating him from Moriarty until he was almost upon him, then he lunged. A vicious snarl erupted from his throat as he made contact, pushing his opponent violently over the edge. Moriarty started as he began to fall, but his reflexes were quick. He turned as his body fell away from the precipice, and he clutched Sherlock's arm. The momentum carried them both over the edge.

Sherlock was dimly aware of the sound of John yelling as they fell. He jerked his arm in Moriarty's grasp, pushing against the thumb joint, exploiting the innate weakness most people were born with. Moriarty's grip fell away and Sherlock reached out for protruding steel pipe. His fingers grasped it, his body jerked to a stop for the briefest moment, then wrenched away from its mooring when Moriarty grasped his ankle, pulling them both down. In the last moments of his fall Sherlock looked up and caught John's panic stricken gaze with his own.

 _John_...

* * *

"No, no, no, no, no. Damn it, Sherlock," John muttered to himself in a chant, scrambling down the scaffolding at a breakneck speed. He hit the bottom so hard he rolled wincing as something sharp pressed against the old wound in his shoulder. Sherlock's prone form was feet from him then, stretched out beside James's broken one. John rushed over the uneven ground that separated them and took Sherlock's face in his hands. "Sherlock," John breathed, his heart leaping when Sherlock's eyelids fluttered.

John took a deep breath and tried again. "Sherlock, can you hear me? Answer me!"

Sherlock mumbled something incomprehensible, and opened his eyes. He licked his lips then managed, "There's no need to shout..."

John's through constricted and his eyes filled with tears of relief. "Don't ever do that again! You could have died!"

Sherlock moved his left hand up to grip John's wrist. He tried with his right but it screamed with pain and wouldn't respond, so he left it; it was probably broken, but it would heal. "He was going to push you if I didn't do something."

John's eyes flittered over to Moriarty's body, the head was obviously sunken and there were no movements indicating breath, so it definitely was a body now. That thought bothered him much less than it probably should have. He had thought James was a friend, had flirted with the possibility of... But if Sherlock said that James would have killed him, John believed him. He trusted Sherlock, and the story could come later.

John turned his attention back towards Sherlock, smoothing his thumbs over angular cheeks, trying to gauge from the pupils the likelihood of a concussion. "When we get back to Baker Street, so help me God, I am going to tie you to the bed." He'd meant to sound harsh, but his voice was still thick with emotion.

Sherlock arched an elegant eyebrow and murmured, "Kinky."

They both chuckled, then Sherlock started to cough in a way that cause worry to bloom again in John's chest. What the hell was he doing sitting around _talking_. They needed an ambulance, maybe a chopper to get them out of this hole, and they needed it _now_. The fall Sherlock had just took... John shuddered and shook his head. There could still be life threatening injuries causing Sherlock to bleed out from inside...

 _No..._

"John?" Sherlock's voice brought him back to the moment, long elegant fingers pressing against his cheek. "What is it?"

"Christ, Sherlock you need an ambulance," John replied, removing one hand from Sherlock's face to search for his own phone. It was in his pockets somewhere, it had to be, he had _just_ had it. "You're arm's broken, probably your leg too, you don't...you don't want to know what a fall like that could have done to you..."

"I do know, and I'm fine," Sherlock insisted, though his voice sounded weak even to his own ears. He could feel the breaks, but he knew his internals were fine...it must be the poison... what timing.

"You _can't_ know for sure, Sherlock" John insisted, still furiously patting the pockets of his coat and trousers, unwilling to remove his other hand from Sherlock's face to search more efficiently. "You _need_ a hospital." John glanced back down at Sherlock and shouted, "Don't close your eyes!"

Sherlock hadn't realized he had done so, but as he blinked them open again he knew it must be true. He licked his lips and frowned. He didn't want to go, he didn't want to leave John. Foolish thought, it should be his work he thought of, not some man he'd known less than a year, but... "John..."

"You are _not_ going to die on me!" John insisted. "I love you, you idiot!" He paled then, as the sound of his own words rang in his ears, every word irrevocably true.

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat and his heart stuttered in his chest. It couldn't be, he had dismissed the concept entirely... but he could not deny the way that John was looking at him right now.

"I love you too," he murmured despite himself, wanting to take back the words almost as soon as he had said them. He didn't do _vulnerable_. But then John smiled and leaned down, pressing a short sharp kiss to his mouth. John pulled back just far enough to murmur. "We'll get you to a hospital, make sure you're okay, then we'll talk."

Sherlock's eyes widened fractionally and he leaned his head back, for he had lifted it to meet John part way. He didn't do this, he didn't do _any_ of this... John slid his and down Sherlock's good arm, and squeezed his hand. "It will be okay." And Sherlock, despite all of the obvious contradictions to that statement, all the statistics that were against them, believed him, because John Watson was the type of man who wouldn't stop until he could _make_ things better.

"Touching."

John whirled around, one hand protectively clutching Sherlock, and the other reaching for his gun. He had it drawn and level at the woman who had snuck up behind them before he could think. She was pale, tall, and had dark brown hair piled elegantly on her head. Her red lips parted in a smile that revealed perfect white teeth. "Easy, Dr. Watson, I come in peace." She lifted one hand up in a surrender position. I even come bearing gifts." With a flick of her wrist she flung something just to their left. John thought it might have been a severed head, but he didn't turn to look. He wasn't going to be that easily distracted when Sherlock's life could hang in the balance.

The choppy sound of helicopter blades slicing through the air began to echo towards them, the sound reverberating off of the enclosed space around them. The woman lifted her face up to the sky and smiled. "That would be Mycroft, punctual as always".

A few minutes of tense silence passed before the ladder of the helicopter came into view, Mycroft perched expertly on its rungs. Still John didn't move, the barrel of his gun never wavered from the woman's head. Brother to Sherlock or not, John had only met the man once, and he didn't trust him.

Mycroft alighted from the ladder and sauntered over to them, idly twirling his umbrella with one hand, while his other rested firm in his trouser pocket. John's jaw tightened, as did his grip on his gun. This man's little _brother_ was lying there with at least two broken limbs, and that asshole didn't seem the slightest bit concerned. And his arrival was sickeningly timely. Something unpleasant was going on, that much was certain.

At length Mycroft reached them and knelt beside his brother. He scanned the prone form of his brother for a moment before nodding to himself. "You'll recover..." Mycroft paused meaningfully, glancing at John who's gun remained trained on a spot between Irene and himself, ready to sway at a moment's notice to the most dire need, "perhaps even a full recovery."

"Of course I'm going to recover!" Sherlock snapped, unnerved by the genuine concern that radiated off of his brother's face. He hadn't made a point of speaking regularly to Mycroft since the elder Holmes brother reach adulthood; he hadn't even _seen_ him since shortly after he had been poisoned... "This was one of your jobs?"

One of Mycroft's eyebrows arched to his hairline and the hint of a smile tugged at his lips. "I never could get you to work for me without a pretense." Sherlock snorted derisively, but Mycroft continued before he could comment. "My paramedics will take you to St. Bart's. We can talk more freely there."

Sherlock's head was swimming and he was starting the think a hospital might be a good idea after all. He squeezed John's arm lightly and murmured. "Put the gun away, John."

John glanced back at him for a moment, nodded slowly, and shifted so his gun rested in his jacket pocket. It was still technically "away" but well within reach if needed. "I'm going with him," John ordered.

Mycroft nodded, humor glittering in his eyes. "You _would_ make use of that gun if I tried to tell you otherwise," he confirmed before he gaze slid over to Irene, who was still with them. "Go on ahead. I'll debrief with my agents, and meet you there." He reached out and rested his hand lightly on Sherlock's good shoulder for a moment, before rising, and moving to stand beside Irene.

Sherlock gazed after him for a moment perplexed and unnerved, then John squeezed his hand again and helped the paramedics transfer him to the backboard. It was inconvenient at times, but John utterly refused to let go of his hand. Sherlock glanced between his brother and his blogger, not sure which one confused him more...

* * *

When Sherlock had been examined and his bones set, he was settled into a private room at St. Bart's for 'observation.' Sherlock groused at the idea of staying in the hospital, but John was in no mood to be argued with. John's hands needed some light bandages for the abrasions he suffered in his mad dash to make sure Sherlock was still alive, but he, like Sherlock, was utterly unrepentant about his injuries.

Once the last nurse had left, John pulled up a chair alongside Sherlock's bed, and took his hand. Sherlock's gaze met John's and he frowned. "I suppose it's time for that _talk_."

"I'll let you sleep if you're tired, but we do need to talk, Sherlock." John insisted. "I love you, and we need to decide where to go from here."

Sherlock grumbled and pouted, eyes scanning everything in the room but John. Until, that is, John's fingers came to rest gently on Sherlock's cheek, capturing his undivided attention.

"I'm not going to force you to do anything you don't want to do. If you want to go on as we have, we can. If this makes you uncomfortable we don't have to continue to be flatmates." John smiled when Sherlock's grip tightened around his hand. "Or we could be something more." John paused and licked his lips, his nerves showing through. "I mean, everyone and their mother already thinks I'm your boyfriend... It would be nice not having to correct them."

"You stopped doing that two months ago," Sherlock countered with a wry smile.

John shrugged. "Probably because of my feelings for you. Aren't you always lecturing me about how the words people use or don't use give them away?" Sherlock chuckled softly and John smiled. "This is still a partnership, Sherlock. What do _you_ want?"

Sherlock swallowed, his gaze still locked with John. He knew what he wanted, but... "John," he began licking his lips as his mouth went suddenly dry. John reached over to the bedside table and brought a cup with a straw to Sherlock's lips. He rolled his eyes, but he drank before speaking once more. "My...illness..." Sherlock faltered and looked at the floor. What could he say? Sherlock himself had run the numbers and even he hardly believed what was happening to him. Forcing himself to meet and hold John's gaze, Sherlock pressed on. "I'm not going to live long. I'm surprised I'm _still_ alive."

John's expression darkened with emotion, but he didn't waiver. "I want _us_ , Sherlock. If you want that too, then I don't care if it's a matter of minutes or a matter of years." John leaned forward in his chair, inching closer to Sherlock. "What do _you_ want?" he repeated.

Sherlock squirmed slightly under John's gaze, uncomfortable with its intensity. He'd turned similar looks on others in the name of a case but none of them had been...real. Sherlock's lips parted as his breathing quickened. John squeezed Sherlock's good hand gently, slowing running his thumb back and forth over the skin on the back of Sherlock's hand. "What do _you_ want?" John repeated once more, so softly that Sherlock hardly heard him.

Sherlock's heart jumped in his chest, and his skin flushed with genuine warmth for the first time in a long time. "You, John. I want you," Sherlock murmured, watching an infectious smile bloom across John's face. John leaned forward, his breath ghosting across Sherlock's face, and sealed their lips together in a kiss. Their joined hands pressed into the pillow beside Sherlock's head as he leaned up into the kiss, parting his lips and meeting John's tongue with his own.

A wry, have amused, half irritated voice cut through the sudden silence of the room. "If you'll kindly remove your tongue from my brother's mouth, we have some talking of our own to do."

John hummed quietly before gently pulling back. "Impeccable timing, Mycroft," He murmured drily, pressing one more soft kiss to Sherlock's lips. John turned then, hand still linked with Sherlock's and almost jumped in surprise. It was one thing for Mycroft or Sherlock to enter a room soundlessly, but Mycroft had brought the woman from earlier with him. Why was _she_ here?!

Sherlock furrowed his brow and stared at her for a long moment. "Your quite skilled with makeup. Most people would not have recognized you as the assistant to that ballerina upon seeing you again."

The woman stepped forward and raised a delicate eyebrow. "You certainly didn't, although to be fair it was dark, and I was sedating you."

Sherlock "hmmed" softly in confirmation. So the ring had been hers and hers alone. It was not the most likely of scenarios, but he had considered it. He had thought she was an agent of Moriarty, but she'd been working for Mycroft all along. It irritated him that he hadn't seen his brother's hand in this, but like him, Mycroft was an expert in his field. The woman smiled then, and Sherlock knew he was missing something... But what?

"When you first met me, and that was longer ago than you realize, I was Irene Adler." He voice was sultry and bubbling over with amusement.

Sherlock's gaze flickered to the ring. "And now?"

The woman reached forward and gently patted his good leg, as it was obvious he was not about to let go of John's hand. "Irene Holmes, pleased to meet you, little brother."

Sherlock and John both gaped at the news, turning to Mycroft as one. Mycroft merely smiled, his hands crossed in front of him, a similarly thin, sparkling platinum ring displayed on his left hand. "I _did_ invite you to the wedding," Mycroft said softly, regret showing itself in his features. "Multiple times."

"I haven't taken your mail or your visits in years," Sherlock replied softly. Even the political case he had taken, the night he was poisoned had only happened because he had been all but forcibly dragged there...

"I wasn't about to drag you to my wedding, when it was my fault that you were so reluctant to see me in the first place..." Mycroft sighed and his eyes softened in a way Sherlock hadn't seen since they were children. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. For everything."

Sherlock's mouth was agape again. What the _hell_ was he supposed to say to that?! He tried to make his mouth work, but it wouldn't cooperate. Meanwhile Mycroft and walked over to stand beside his wife. "Whether we continue to talk or not, it was important for you to know Irene. You two will be frequent rivals, and I'd much prefer that neither of you kills the other."

Sherlock sputtered for a moment, then his face cleared. "You didn't want to cut the head off the snake, you wanted me to help you replace it.."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow at his brother. "I thought you had been referring to Moriarty as a spider. However, the general principle is correct. Simply dispatching Moriarty would have left a vacancy some other clever and unknown person would fill."

"But if you filled it yourself," Sherlock continued, "Then you would have more control."

Mycroft and Irene nodded. "Precisely," they chorused.

Sherlock's eyes flittered over the both of them. The British government and the crime world of Brittan were in bed together...literally. Sherlock shared a glance with John, and the giggling became inevitable.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but Sherlock could see the amusement in them. "This isn't a conversation we need to finish today, but I do hope you'll start returning my calls."

Sherlock looked at his brother for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "I'll consider it." The two brother's shared a brief smile before Sherlock's eyes flickered back to Irene. "What kind of interference can I expect, then?"

Irene shrugged. "Nothing too invasive. In order to maintain control certain large operations will need to be maintained. If you get too close I'll do what needs to be done."

Sherlock nodded in understanding. "As in the Dwight murder."

Irene nodded. "Exactly."

Sherlock thought for a moment, then added, "And the ballerina case was a potential risk to international politics if the girl went public with her heritage."

Mycroft shrugged. "She is a prima ballerina now, just as she wanted. And her evidence is in safe hands."

"Why a syringe?" Sherlock asked, referencing the item left for him in the wake of the evidence he was after.

Mycroft's face grew serious. "I wanted you to focus on a cure."

Sherlock scoffed, "There wasn't enough time to synthesize a cure from the moment I was poisoned."

"Poisoned?!" John cried, looking stricken. "Is that why-"

"Yes, John," Sherlock cut him off, giving his hand a squeeze. "My illness is caused by a long-acting poison."

"With no cure?" John asked, leaning closer to Sherlock, searching his face.

"Only one that we know of," Mycroft cut in, removing some papers from the inner pocket of his suit jacket, "and it appears to be working." Mycroft held out the papers to Sherlock, who accepted them with a dubious frown.

Sherlock scanned the papers in front of him, his frown deepening. He flipped the pages. Some held only figures, others snapshots of what were presumably his own cells under a microscope. John leaned over his shoulder, examining the pages as well. "I don't understand," he murmured, "This all looks normal.. well, you're anemic, but that's really no surprise."

"I've suspected for some months that a cure might be at work," Mycroft continued, causing both Sherlock and John to look up at him. "When you were brought in, I had them pull several vials of blood for testing."

Sherlock's mouth worked open and shut for a few moments, but no words came. He looked at Mycroft, then at John, then down at his good hand which John had once again covered with his own. A small, disbelieving smile crept over Sherlock's face.

Mycroft drew in a breath and took his wife's arm. "I'll stop by tomorrow," he announced.

Sherlock looked up, met his brother's gaze and nodded, first to Mycroft, then to Irene, who both nodded back. "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," Irene murmured as she and her husband left the room. Sherlock watched them go, then turned his gaze back on John, who, not surprisingly, looked confused.

"So... are you cured?"

Sherlock glanced down at the papers in his lap then back up at John. "It would appear so."

John beamed at him and pulled Sherlock in as tight a hug as the hospital bed and bandages would allow. When John finally pulled back he said, "You still owe me an explanation, Sherlock. About this case, and the poison, we're not all consulting detectives you know."

Sherlock chuckled softly. "It's a long story, but you might have heard something like it before."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **And that's my Johnlock rendition of Beauty and the Beast! I hope you enjoyed the story, it's been a long time coming and I'm glad I was able to share it. I may write a breif, epilogue, I haven't decided yet. I think I'll leave it up to you all. Let me know if you want an epilogue, and I'll see what I can do.**

 **For now, I am on to a smaller project, called "What If." It will be my first, and probably last omegaverse, written by request. My next big project after that will be entitled, "Choosing Love." Here's a little sneak peak on that one:**

" _John Watson, look at me." Mary's words were sharp._

 _John 's eyes found hers slowly, reluctantly._

 _Mary's eyes searched his, looking straight through all the layers that weighed him down._

 _"I knew that you loved him the first time I met you." She smiled and shook her head. "You should've seen the look on your face when you said his name."_

 _John's lips parted in a pained grimace. "Love isn't always enough, Mary."_

 _She lifted her hand and her fingers caressed his face as she whispered, "No, but it always_ _ **should**_ _be."_


End file.
